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3  : 


Stories   of  the 
Steppe 


.« 


by  Maxim  Gorki 


I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


STRATFORD  UNIVERSAL  LIBRARY 

STORIES 
OF  THE  STEPPE 

by 

Maxim  Gorki 


v 


translated  by 
Henry  T.  Schnittkind     ; ;    Isaac  Goldberg 


BOSTON 

The  Stratford    Company,    Publishers 

1918 


Copyright   1918 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,   Publishers 

Boston,  Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,   Boston,   Mass.,   U.   S.   A. 


Introduction 


MAXIM  GORKI,  the  Bitter  Voice  of  Russia,  can  tell  fairy- 
tales whose  coloring  has  all  the  richness  of  oriental  twi- 
lights and  whose  cadences  are  garlands  woven  of  sea-spray  and 
wind-blossoms.  His  stories  of  the  steppe  are  not  propagandistic, 
and  with  the  exception  of  the  powerful  tale  Because  of  Monotony, 
they  are  not  sordid  pictures  of  realistic  misery,  but  they  are 
sweet  fairy  lullabies  that  the  gods  must  sing  to  the  baby  angels 
when  they  are  sad  and  weary  with  their  contemplation  of  human 
sorrows.  These  tales  are  filled  with  longing,  and  throughout 
that  longing  there  is  a  thread  of  red  fire  that  at  times  bursts 
forth  into  a  flaming  prophecy  of  hope.  Perhaps  Gorki,  in  writ- 
ing those  strange,  wonderfully  magical  fairy  tales,  was  un- 
consciously rehearsing  that  strangest  and  most  wonderful  fairy 
tale  of  them  all, —  the  great  Russian  Revolution. 

He  who  has  no  love  for  music  had  better  leave  these  stories 
alone,  as  they  will  have  no  charm  for  him.  He  who  prefers  so- 
ciety to  sunsets  will  find  these  stories  dull  and  colorless, —  as 
colorless  as  the  clouds  at  the  close  of  the  day  are  to  a  blind  man. 
But  those  who  have  the  capacity  for  enjoying  the  silent  music 
of  the  night,  the  barely  audible  purling  of  sea-waves  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  soft  pit-a-pat  of  the  wind-dance  on  the  prairie,  will  be 
charmed  by  these  stories  as  they  have  rarely  been  charmed  in 
tlieir  waking  hours.  For  these  stories  of  the  steppe  have  all 
the  magic  of  dreams;  their  atmospliere  enveloi)es  you  and  per- 
meates your  every  pore,  sinking  deep  into  your  lieart  through 
every  one  of  your  five  senses,  and  tlirougli  a  sixth  sense,  too,— a 
sense  whose  very  indefinable  vagueness  makes  if  the  most  vivid 
of  them  all.  For  it  is  that  sense, —  or  shall  i  cnli  it  religious 
experience, —  which  enables  you  to  realize  eternity  in  the  single 

V 


INTRODUCTION 

tick  of  a  clock  and  infinity  in  a  drop  of  water.  It  is  that  sense 
which  sometimes  catches  you  unawares,  as  you  pass  on  your 
prosaic  road  of  jagged  experiences  between  a  dream  and  a 
dream,  when  suddenly  turning  your  head,  you  see  God  nodding 
and  smiling  to  you  as  he  pauses  for  an  instant  in  this  labor  of 
creating  new  worlds. 

The  Russians,  we  are  told,  are  dreamers.  Fortunate  Rus- 
sians !  The  greatest  and  finest  and  most  enduring  things  in  the 
world  are  the  handiwork  of  dreamers.  Men  of  action  who  are 
unable  to  dream  are  the  destroyers  of  the  world;  they  are  the 
Hindenburgs,  the  Hohenzollerns,  those  brute  forces  that  can- 
not leave  their  imprint  on  the  sands  of  time  unless  the  sand  is 
soaked  in  human  blood.  It  is  the  dreamers,  men  like  Gorki  and 
Tolstoi,  who  out  of  the  elements  of  sea  and  land  can  build  a 
fairy  tale  and  out  of  the  chaos  of  tyranny  and  suffering  can 
create  a  nation  of  free  men  and  women, 

Maxim  Gorki  is  one  of  the  supreme  dreamer-revolutionists 
of  the  present  day,  and  the  stories  of  the  steppe  are  among  his 
most  wonderful  visions.  The  translators  have  been  rather  free 
in  their  rendering,  for  it  has  required  the  utmost  care  to  re- 
produce the  tang  and  the  perfume  of  the  Russian  steppe  on 
American  soil.  A  dream  of  such  fine  coloring  and  melody  can 
be  totally  shattered  by  the  introduction  of  the  slightest  jarring 
note,  and  the  translators  hope  that  at  least  a  fraction  of  the 
beauty  of  the  original  has  been  preserved  in  this  version, 

H.    T,    S. 


VI 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Makar  Chudra 9 

Because  of  Monotony 27 

The  Man  Who  Could  Not  Die      ...        49 


vu 


Makar  Chudra 


A  MOIST  and  chilly  wind  carried  over  the  steppe  the  mel- 
ancholy murmur  of  the  waves  that  splashed  against  the 
shore,  and  of  the  shrubbery  which  covered  the  water's  edge. 
Now  and  then  the  Avind  drove  before  it  a  multitude  of  withered 
yellow  leaves,  whirling  them  into  the  camp-fire  and  fanning  its 
flames,  whereupon  a  shudder  crept  over  the  darkness  that  en- 
veloped us,  piercing  the  autumn  night  and  revealing  to  the  left — 
the  limitless  steppe,  and  to  the  right — the  infinite  ocean  against 
the  background  of  which  crouched  the  figure  of  Makar  Chudra, 
an  old  gypsy  who  had  been  set  to  watch  over  the  horses  of  the 
camp  which  was  situated  about  fifty  paces  from  us. 

He  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  the  cold  blasts  of  the 
wind  that  whipped  open  his  gypsy  cloak,  exposing  and  lashing 
unmercifully  his  hairy  bronze-colored  chest.  Turning  toward 
me  his  free,  vStrong  and  handsome  face  from  his  recumbent  post- 
ure, he  thouglitfully  puffed  away  at  his  big  pipe,  blowing  thick 
clouds  of  smoke  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils.  His  motionless 
eyes  were  fixed  beyond  me  upon  the  darkness  that  stretched 
endlessly  over  the  death-like  silence  of  the  steppe.  He  talked 
to  me  without  interruption,  making  no  motion  whatsoever  to 
shield  himself  against  the  pitiless  buffeting  of  the  storm. 

"And  so  you  are  joining  us?  That's  fine  !  You  have  chosen 
a  splendid  course.  Falcon.  We  all  have  to  meet  our  fate.  Go 
about  and  see  the  world,  and  wticn  you  liave  seen  enougli,  lie 
down  and  die —  and  that's  all ! 

9 


10  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 


<  <  ■ 


Life?  Other  people?"  he  continued —  " H 'm !  What 
business  is  it  of  yours?  Are  you  not  yourself  a  slice  of  life? 
And  as  for  other  people,  they  have  been  living  without  you  and 
they  will  continue  to  live  without  you.  Do  you  think  anybody 
needs  you?  You're  neither  bread  nor  a  staff;  why  then  should 
people  have  need  of  you  ? 

' '  To  learn  and  to  teach,  you  say  ?  Can  you  ever  learn  how  to 
make  people  happy  ?  No,  you  can 't.  You  will  only  become  gray 
and  then  you  will  say  that  you  must  teach  others.  But  what  are 
you  going  to  teach  them?  Everybody  knows  what  he  needs. 
The  wise  take  everything,  the  fools  get  nothing,  and  everybody 
learns  for  himself . . . 

"Human  beings  are  ridiculous,  crowding  themselves  to- 
gether into  a  single  heap  and  stifling  the  life  out  of  one  an- 
other, when  there  is  so  much  room  in  the  world, "  —  he  extended 
his  hand  toward  the  wide  steppe.  —  "And  they  are  forevermore 
working.  For  what?  For  whom?  Nobody  knows.  You  behold 
a  man  at  the  plough,  and  you  think :  First  he  wastes  away  his 
strength  tilling  the  earth  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  and  then  he 
stretches  his  own  corpse  in  it  and  rots  away.  Nothing  remains 
of  him,  he  does  not  even  reap  his  own  sowing,  but  dies  just  as 
he  was  born,  a  blockhead. 

' '  Can  it  be  that  he  is  bom  for  this, — to  dig  about  in  the  earth 
and  then  to  die  even  before  he  has  succeeded  in  preparing  his 
own  grave?  Has  he  known  freedom?  Does  he  understand  the 
wide  expanse  of  the  steppe  ?  The  multitudinous  murmur  of  the 
sea,  is  his  heart  ever  gladdened  by  that  sound  ?  H  'm !  From  the 
moment  of  his  birth  he  is  a  slave,  and  throughout  all  his  life 
he  remains  a  slave,  that 's  all !  He  can  do  nothing  to  help  him- 
self, except  to  put  a  noose  around  his  head  if  ever  he  becomes  a 
little  wiser. 

' '  But  as  for  me  —  just  look  at  me,  will  you  —  I  have  seen 
so  much  in  my  fifty  odd  years  that  if  I  were  to  write  it  all  down 
on  paper,  it  would  fill  more  than  a  thousand  sacks  like  the  one 


MAXIM   GORKI  11 

you've  got  there.  Yes,  and  then  there  would  be  some  left  over. 
I'd  like  you  to  show  me  the  country  I  haven't  been  to.  Why, 
you  haven't  even  heard  of  all  the  countries  I  have  visited. 
That 's  the  way  to  live  —  wandering,  wandering,  —  staying  only 
for  a  little  while  in  each  place.  —  Why  not  ?  Just  as  the  day 
and  the  night  are  forever  on  the  go,  chasing  each  other  around 
the  earth,  I  would  advise  you  to  be  on  the  move,  away  from  your 
thoughts  about  life,  if  you  don't  want  to  get  sick  of  them.  For 
the  more  you  think  of  life  the  less  you  like  it,  that's  how  it  al- 
ways happens.  I,  too,  have  had  the  same  experience.  Yes, 
Falcon,  I've  lived  through  it  all  myself. 

"I  have  been  in  jail;  it  was  in  Galicia,  and  I  had  plenty  of 
time  to  philosophize  there.  What  am  I  in  this  world  for?  I  used 
to  ask  myself.  I  would  get  these  thoughts  into  my  head  just  to 
break  the  monotony, — for  it  certainly  was  monotonous  there !  At 
such  moments  my  heart  was  oppressed  with  longing  whenever 
I  looked  at  the  fields  through  the  prison  bars.  My  heart  was 
pressed  as  in  a  vise ! .  . ,  Yes,  Falcon,  we  live  in  this  world  and 
that  is  all.  Who  knows  why?  Nobody.  And  it's  useless  to  ask. 
Live  and  live  fully ;  keep  wandering  and  look  about  you,  and  you 
will  never  long  for  that  which  you  haven't  got,  never!  At  that 
time  I  could  have  strangled  myself  with  my  girdle.  Yes,  Falcon, 
I've  been  through  it  all! 

"  H  'm !  Once  I  spoke  to  a  man .  .  ,  He  was  a  stern  fellow, 
—  one  of  you,  a  Russian,  lie  said :  '  You  ought  to  live  not  as  you 
like,  but  as  God  ha.s  ordained.  Only  throw  yourself  at  God's 
feet  and  lie  will  give  you  everything  that  you  pray  for.'  And 
yet  this  chap  himself  wore  a  ragged  suit  full  of  holes.  I  told  him 
to  get  a  new  suit  of  clothes  with  his  prayers,  whereupon  he  be- 
came angry,  cursed  and  drove  me  away  from  him.  Up  to  that 
time  he  had  been  preaching  forgiveness  and  love.  lie  should 
therefore  have  forgiven  me  when  I  ofTcnded  his  pride  with  my 
words.  There's  a  teacher  for  you  !  They  tench  you  to  eat  less, 
and  they  themselves  eat  ten  times  a  day ..." 


12  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

He  spat  into  the  fire  and  became  silent,  filling  his  pipe  once 
more.  The  wind  had  died  down  to  a  soft,  melancholy  wail,  the 
horses  neighed  in  the  darkness,  and  from  the  camp  floated  the 
tender,  yet  sorrowful  tones  of  a  dirge.  The  singer  was  the 
beautiful  Nonka,  the  daughter  of  Makar.  I  recognized  the  rich 
and  round  quality  of  her  voice  which  always  sounded  so  pathetic, 
so  full  of  longing  and  discontent  —  whether  she  were  singing  a 
song  or  merely  saying  ' '  good  morning. ' '  In  her  brown  lustreless 
features  you  could  see  the  smoldering  hauteur  of  a  queen  and 
in  her  dark-brown  eyes  that  were  always  veiled  with  a  shadow  of 
sadness  flashed  the  conscious  power  of  her  charm  and  the  ir- 
resistible attractiveness  of  her  beauty,  as  well  as  her  contempt 
for  everything  that  was  unlike  herself. 

Makar  handed  the  pipe  to  me. 

"Have  a  smoke!  Doesn't  the  girl  sing  well?  Don't  you 
think  so,  hey  ?  How  would  you  like  to  be  loved  by  a  girl  like  her  1 
You  wouldn't?  That's  fine!  You  are  quite  right.  Put  no 
trust  in  women,  and  keep  away  from  them.  To  kiss  a  girl  is 
better  and  pleasanter  than  to  smoke  my  pipe. . .  But  once  you 
have  kissed  a  woman  the  freedom  of  your  heart  is  dead.  A 
woman  binds  you  to  her  with  bonds  that  can  neither  be  seen  nor 
torn  asunder.  You  give  your  whole  soul  away  and  you  get 
nothing  in  return.  Take  my  advice;  beware  of  women.  They 
are  always  lying,  the  snakes.  . .  'I  love  you  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world,'  she  says.  And  yet,  if  you  but  prick  her  acci- 
dentally with  a  pin,  she  will  tear  your  heart  out.  I  know ! 
Ye  gods,  how  well  I  know !  If  you  will  listen  to  me.  Falcon,  I  '11 
tell  you  a  story.  But  above  all,  be  on  your  guard,  and  you  will 
remain  a  free  bird  all  your  life. 

* '  There  was  one  upon  a  time  a  young  gypsy,  and  his  name 
was  Zobar,  Loyko  Zobar.  All  Hungary  and  Bohemia  and  Sla- 
vonia  and  all  the  country  that  borders  on  the  sea  knew  him,  for 
he  was  a  brave  lad.  There  was  not  a  village  in  the  entire  land  in 
which  there  were  not  at  least  a  dozen  people  who  had  sworn  an 


MAXIM   GORKI  13 

oath  to  Heaven  that  they  would  kill  Loyko.  And  yet  he  lived. 
If  he  ever  took  a  fancy  to  a  horse,  he  would  gallop  away  with 
it  even  if  an  entire  regiment  had  been  set  to  watch  over  the 
beast.  H'm!  He  feared  neither  God  nor  man.  And  even  if 
Satan  himself  were  to  array  his  whole  hellish  army  against  him, 
he  would  oppose  them  single-handed,  and  I  haven't  the  slightest 
doubt  in  the  world  that  Satan's  jaw  would  feel  the  taste  of  Zo- 
bar's  mighty  fist. 

"And  every  gypsy  camp  knew  him  either  by  sight  or  by 
hearsay.  He  loved  only  horses,  nothing  else,  and  even  these  he 
loved  only  for  a  while.  One  gallop  and  he  was  done  with  them. 
And  the  money  that  he  got  for  selling  them  anybody  could  have 
for  the  asking.  He  had  nothing  that  he  was  unwilling  to  share 
with  others.  If  you  were  to  ask  for  his  very  heart,  he  would  tear 
it  out  of  his  breast  and  give  it  to  you  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
doing  you  a  favor.    That's  the  kind  of  a  man  he  was,  Falcon! 

' '  Our  band  was  at  that  time  wandering  through  Bukowina — 
it  was  about  ten  years  ago — .  Once,  in  the  springtime — I  re- 
member it  as  though  it  happened  yesterday  —  we  were  resting ; 
myself,  Danila,  the  soldier  who  had  fought  with  Kossuth,  old 
Nur  and  all  the  others.  Radda,  Danila 's  daughter,  was  with  us, 
too. 

"You  know  my  Nonka,  don't  you?  Isn't  she  a  queen  of  a 
girl!  But  Radda  must  not  be  compared  with  her,  for  that  wo\i1d 
be  too  much  honor  for  Nonka!  Words  cannot  describe  this 
Radda.  One  might,  perhaps,  express  her  loveliness  by  means 
of  the  violin,  but  he  alone  could  do  it  who  knows  the  violin  as 
he  knows  his  own  soul. 

"Many  a  brave  young  heart  did  she  ruin,  ye  gods,  how  many ! 
Once  a  rich  old  man  behfld  her.  When  his  glance  fell  upon  her, 
he  stopped  as  if  paralyzed.  He  sat  upon  his  mount  and  gazed 
at  her,  trembling  as  in  a  fever.  He  was  as  handsome  as  the 
devil  on  a  holifiay,  his  mantle  was  embroidered  with  gold,  and 
whenever  the  horse  stamped  with  his  hoofs,  the  sabre  flashed 


14  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

like  lightning  at  his  side . . .  The  entire  sabre  was  inlaid  with 
precious  stones,  and  the  bright  blue  velvet  on  his  cap  was  like 
a  piece  of  sky ...  A  mighty  nobleman  was  he !  He  gazed  and 
gazed  upon  Radda,  and  then  he  said  to  her:  'Give  me  a  kiss 
and  I  will  give  you  a  purse  full  of  money  in  return ! '  She  merely 
turned  away,  and  that  was  all.  'Pardon  me!  Even  if  I  have 
offended  you,  you  will  at  least  favor  me  with  your  smile,  won't 
you  ? '  Thus  did  he  humble  his  pride,  throwing  a  purse  of  money 
at  her  feet  —  a  great,  big  purse,  brother !  But  Radda  merely 
kicked  it  with  her  foot  into  the  dusty  road,  and  that  was  all. 

' '  '  Aha !  Is  that  the  kind  of  a  girl  you  are  ? '  muttered  the 
rich  man,  whipping  his  horse.  Only  a  cloud  of  dust  remained  be- 
hind. 

"And  the  next  day  he  came  again. —  'Who  is  her  father?' 
he  cried  in  a  loud  voice  that  resounded  throughout  the  camp. 
Danila  came.  'Sell  me  your  daughter,  and  set  your  own  price!' 
But  Danila  replied :  '  This  is  the  custom  only  among  gentlemen ; 
they  sell  everything,  from  their  pigs  to  their  conscience.  But  I 
have  fought  under  Kossuth,  and  I  will  not  sell  anything ! '  The 
nobleman  flew  into  a  rage  and  grasped  the  hilt  of  his  sabre,  but 
just  at  that  moment  one  of  us  stuck  a  burning  match  into  the  ear 
of  his  horse  and  drove  him  away  together  with  the  rider. . .  We 
broke  up  our  camp  and  wandered  on.  We  wandered  for  two 
days,  and  yet  he  overtook  us!  'Hey,  you  folks,'  he  said,  'be- 
fore you  and  before  God  my  conscience  is  clear.  Give  me  this  girl 
for  my  wife,  and  I  will  share  everything  with  you.  I  am  very 
rich ! '  —  He  was  burning  with  excitement  and  just  as  a  blade  of 
grass  quivers  in  the  tempest,  just  so  did  he  sway  in  the  saddle. 

"  'Well,  my  daughter,  speak!'  grumbled  Danila  into  his 
beard. 

"  'If  the  daughter  of  an  eagle  were  to  go  of  her  own  free 
wiU  into  the  nest  of  a  raven,  what  would  she  become  then?' 
asked  Radda. 

"Danila  laughed  and  we  laughed  with  him. 


MAXIM   GORKI  15 

**  'Well  spoken,  little  daughter!  Have  you  heard,  your 
Honor  ?  It  can 't  be  done !  You  had  better  look  for  a  little  dove 
— they  are  more  submissive.' 

"And  we  went  on.  The  nobleman  took  his  cap,  threw  it 
upon  the  ground  and  galloped  away, — he  galloped  so  fast  tnat 
the  earth  quaked.    That's  the  kind  of  a  girl  she  was.  Falcon! 

*  *  Yes,  and  one  evening  we  were  sitting  and  listening.  Music 
floated  over  the  steppe.  It  was  a  wonderful  music !  It  set  the 
blood  in  our  veins  afire  and  seemed  to  call  us  somewhere.  And 
we,  every  one  of  us,  felt  as  though  that  music  awoke  in  us  a 
vague  longing,  either  to  die  or  else  to  live  as  the  ruler  of  the 
entire  world.    That's  the  kind  of  music  it  was,  Falcon! 

"And  it  came  nearer  and  ever  nearer.  And  suddenly  a 
horse  steps  out  of  the  darkness,  and  upon  this  horse  sits  a  man 
playing  on  a  fiddle  as  he  approaches  us.  At  the  campfire  he 
halts,  stops  playing  and  greets  us  with  a  smile. 

"  'Ah,  Zobar,  it  is  you!'  cried  Danila  joyously. 

"That,  then,  was  Loyko  Zobar!  The  ends  of  his  mustache 
hung  way  down  over  his  shoulders,  mingling  together  with  his 
steel-brown  locks;  his  eyes  glittered  as  the  bright-stars,  and  the 
very  sun  was  mirrored  in  his  laughter,  so  help  me  God!  He 
looked  as  though  chiselled  out,  chiselled  out  of  one  piece  together 
with  his  horse.  He  sat  as  though  wholly  suffused  with  blood  in 
the  light  of  the  glowing  logs,  and  his  teeth  flashed  when  he 
laughed.  May  I  be  cursed  if  I  did  not  fall  in  love  with  him  im- 
mediately, even  before  he  spoke  a  single  word  or  even  noticed 
that  I,  too,  lived  on  the  face  of  the  earth! 

"Yes,  Falcon,  that's  the  kind  of  people  we  sometimes  find 
in  the  world!  He  looks  into  your  eyes  and  he  captures  your 
whole  soul.  And  yon  are  not  even  asliamed  of  it;  on  the  con- 
trary, you  foci  proud  of  it.  Tti  your  dealings  with  such  a  man 
you  become  better  yourself.  My  friend,  the  world  has  not  many 
people  like  him!  And  it  is  only  right  that  this  sliould  be  so. 
If  there  were  much  good  in  the  world,  people  would  no  longer 


16  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

consider  it  good.  That's  how  it  is!  But  hear  what  happened 
after  that. 

"Radda  spoke  up:  'You  play  beautifully,  Loyko.  Who 
made  you  this  fiddle  with  such  rich  full  tones?' 

"Loyko  laughed.  *  I  myself  have  made  it !  Not  out  of  wood 
have  I  made  it,  but  out  of  the  breast  of  a  young  girl  whom  I 
have  loved  ardently,  and  the  strings  have  I  fashioned  by  inter- 
twining her  heart-strings.  It  is  still  somewhat  false,  this  fiddle, 
but  I  know  how  to  master  it  with  the  bow  in  my  hand.  Do  you 
see?' 

"We  gypsies,  as  you  know,  try  from  the  very  outset  to  be- 
cloud the  eyes  of  women  in  order  that  they  may  not  set  our 
hearts  aflame,  but  that  they  should  themselves  instead  be  filled 
with  longing  for  us.  Loyko  acted  likewise.  But  he  struck  the 
wrong  party.  Radda  turned  away  and  said,  yawning:  'H'm! 
And  yet  people  have  told  me  that  Loyko  is  wise  and  clever.  The 
people  have  lied  to  me ! '  Saying  this,  she  went  off. 

"  'Aha,  my  beauty!  You  have  sharp  teeth!'  exclaimed 
Loyko  w  ith  flashing  eyes  as  he  jumped  off  his  horse.  '  Hail,  com- 
rades !     Here  I  am ! ' 

"  'Be  our  welcome  guest,  0  eagle!'  replied  Danila.  After 
our  mutual  embraces  we  conversed  for  a  while  and  then  we  all 
w'ent  to  sleep . . .  We  slept  soundly . . .  The  next  morning  we  no- 
ticed that  Zobar  had  tied  a  bandage  around  his  head.  What  was 
the  matter  ?  Why,  his  temple  had  been  wounded  by  the  horse 's 
hoof,  he  said. 

"H'm!  We  knew  what  sort  of  a  horse  it  was  and  we  all 
snickered  into  our  beards.  Danila  also  smiled.  What?  Wasn't 
Loyko  worthy  of  Radda?  Surely  not  that!  A  girl  may  be  as 
beautiful  as  the  day,  and  yet  her  soul  remains  mean  and 
cramped,  and  even  if  you  hang  a  sackful  of  gold  around  her  neck, 
she  can  never  become  better  than  she  was  in  the  first  place.  Yes, 
siree ! 

' '  Thus  we  lived  on  and  on  in  that  place.    Business  was  good, 


MAXIM   GORKI  17 

and  Zobar  remained  with  us.  That  was  a  comrade  for  you,  Fal- 
con !  Wise  as  an  old  man,  and  skilled  in  everything ;  he  even  un- 
derstood how  to  read  and  WTite  Russian  and  Hungarian.  When- 
ever he  began  to  speak,  you  felt  as  though  you  would  like  to 
banish  sleep  forever  just  so  you  might  listen  to  him!  And  he 
could  play — may  a  thunderbolt  strike  me  down  this  very  mo- 
ment if  this  world  has  ever  seen  another  man  who  could  play 
like  Zobar.  When  he  first  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings  your 
heart  began  to  go  pit-a-pat,  at  the  second  chord  your  heart 
stopped  beating.  But  he  would  play  on  and  smile  at  us.  We 
wanted  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time  when  we  listened  to 
his  tunes.  Now  you  could  hear  a  long-drawn-out  prayer  for  help 
that  would  cut  your  heart  like  a  knife,  with  its  pathos.  And  now 
the  instrument  reechoed  with  the  melody  of  the  steppe  telling 
fairy  tales,  oh  such  melancholy  fairy-tales,  to  heaven.  Then  re- 
sounded a  maiden's  tearful  syllables,  as  she  was  bidding  fare- 
well to  her  heart's  beloved.  And  then  rippled  forth  the  cheerful 
laughter  of  her  brave  lover,  calling  her  into  the  steppe.  And 
suddenly,  heigho!  A  free  and  lively  tune  leapt  from  his  bow 
like  a  cataract,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  sun  would  begin  to 
dance  in  the  heavens  to  the  rhythm  of  that  tune!  That's  the 
kind  of  music  it  was.  Falcon ! 

"Every  nerve  in  your  body  tingled  at  the  sound  of  that  mu- 
sic and  you  became  its  utter  .slave.  And  if  Loyko  had  exclaimed 
at  such  a  moment,  '  To  arms,  comrades ! '  we  would  all  have 
plunged  our  knives  into  the  heart  of  him  who  might  be  indicated 
by  Loyko.  He  could  do  everything  with  us,  and  we  loved  him,  we 
loved  him  ardently.  Only  Radda  paid  no  attention  to  liim.  That 
wouldn't  have  been  so  bad,  but  she  even  made  sport  of  him.  As 
in  a  vi.se  .she  held  Zobar 's  heart  imprisoned.  Loyko  gnashed  his 
teeth  and  twirled  his  long  niustaclie.  His  eyes  wore  blacker 
than  an  abyss,  and  yet  now  and  tlu^n  they  flashed  .so  fiercely  that 
our  hearts  were  filled  with  trembling.  At  night  he  went  far 
into  the  steppe,  did  this  fearless  Loyko,  and  he  let  his  fiddle  wail 


18  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

till  the  dawning  of  the  day.  The  fiddle  wailed  because  his  free- 
dom w-as  dead.  And  we  lay  awake  in  our  camp,  thinking, 
'What's  to  be  done?'  We  knew  very  well  that  when  two  rocks 
roll  upon  each  other  it  is  death  to  stand  between  them.  That's 
how  it  was,  Falcon ! 

"One  day  we  were  all  sitting  together  and  speaking  about 
our  business.  Our  talk  was  becoming  monotonous  and  so  Danila 
spoke  up:  'Sing  us  a  song,  Zobar!  Gladden  our  hearts  with  a 
tune ! '  The  latter  cast  a  glance  toward  Radda,  who  lay  upon 
her  back  not  far  from  us,  her  face  upturned  toward  the  sky, 
and  then  he  began  to  draw  his  bow.  Hereupon  the  fiddle  started 
to  talk,  as  though  it  really  were  the  heart  of  a  young  girl !  And 
Loyko  sang : 

'  Ho !  My  heart  is  aflame  as  I  ride, 
Through  the  wastes  of  the  steppe  so  wide. 
Like  an  arrow  flies  my  steed 
Shod  with  the  whirlwind 's  speed.  * 

"Radda  turned  her  head,  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and 
smiled  into  Loyko 's  eyes.    His  face  flamed  up  like  the  sunrise. 

'Heigho!     Let  us  gallop  away 

From  the  night  to  the  gates  of  the  day! 

Let  us  scatter  the  mantle  of  mist 

Where  the  hills  by  the  sunrise  are  kissed. 

We  will  ride  with  the  sun  till  the  night 
And  spatter  the  sky  with  her  light ; 
We  will  leap  into  midnight  from  noon 
And  rest  on  the  tip  of  the  moon. ' 

"That's  the  way  he  sang!  Nobody  can  sing  like  that  now- 
adays!   Radda,  however,  merely  remarked  as  though  she  were 


JVIAXIM   GORKI  19 

spilling  water  through  a  sieve:  'I  wouldn't  fly  so  high  if  I  were 
you,  Loyko.  You're  liable  to  fall  down  and  stick  your  nose  into 
a  puddle,  and  then  your  mustache  will  get  dirty.  You  had  better 
look  out ! '  Loyko  glared  at  her  for  a  moment,  but  said  nothing. 
Controlling  his  rage,  he  continued  his  song: 

'  Heigho !  And  to-morrow  will  peep 
And  will  find  us  fast  asleep. 
And  then  we  will  both  pass  away, 
In  the  flaming  sun's  red  spray.' 

"  'That's  what  I  call  a  song!'  said  Danila. —  'Never  in  my  life 
have  I  heard  such  a  song.  May  Satan  make  a  pipe  out  of  me 
this  very  minute  if  I  'm  not  telling  the  truth ! '  Old  Nur  stroked 
his  mustache  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  This  song  of  Zobar's 
had  touched  the  hearts  of  us  all.  But  Radda  was  not  pleased 
with  it. 

"  'A  fly  once  buzzed  just  like  this  when  he  tried  to  imitate 
the  cry  of  the  eagle,'  she  said.  We  all  felt  as  though  she  had 
just  showered  us  with  snow. 

"  'Perhaps  you  would  like  to  taste  the  whip,  Radda,'  said 
her  father.  But  Zobar  threw  his  cap  on  the  ground  and  with 
flashing  eyes  exclaimed:  'Stop,  Danila!  A  fiery  horse  needs  a 
bit  of  steel !    I  want  your  consent  to  marry  your  daughter!' 

"  'Well  spoken!'  smiled  Danila.  'Take  her,  if  only  you  are 
willing  and  able !' 

"  'Very  well,'  replied  Loyko,  and  turned  to  Radda:  'Well, 
my  pretty  lass,  listen  to  me  and  don't  be  so  haughty!  I  have 
known  many  of  your  sisters,  yes,  many  of  them.  But  not  one  of 
them  has  so  fired  my  heart  as  you.  Ah,  Radda,  you  have  im- 
prisoned my  soul...  Well,  then,  what  am  I  to  do  about  it? 
Whatever  must  happen  will  happen.  .  .  Yes,  there  isn't  a  horse 
in  the  world  who  can  carry  you  away  from  yourself!  I  ask  you 
to  marry  me  before  God,  my  honor,  your  father  and  all  these 


20  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

people.  But  beware  of  interfering  with  my  freedom — for  I  am 
a  free  man  and  I  want  to  live  as  I  choose!'  Hereupon,  compress- 
ing his  lips,  he  approached  her.  With  flashing  eyes  he  stepped 
forward  to  take  her...  'Aha,'  we  said  to  ourselves,  'at  last 
Radda  has  put  the  bit  into  the  mouth  of  the  steed  of  the  steppe. 
But  suddenly  we  saw  him  throw  his  hands  into  the  air  and  fall 
down  flat  on  his  back ! .  . . 

"He  fell  as  though  struck  with  a  bullet.  How  had  it  hap- 
pened ?  It  was  Radda.  She  had  coiled  the  whip  around  his  legs 
drawing  it  sharply  toward  herself,  whereupon  Loyk'o  fell  to  the 
ground. 

"And  then  she  lay  down  again  and  looked  smilingly  at  the 
sky.  We  waited  to  see  what  Loyko  would  do.  The  latter,  how- 
ever, sat  on  the  ground  pressing  his  temples  with  his  hands,  as 
though  fearful  that  his  head  would  burst.  Then  he  rose  quietly 
and  went  off  into  the  steppe  without  casting  a  single  glance  in 
our  direction.  Nur  whispered  to  me,  'Watch  him!'  And  I  crept 
after  Zobar  into  the  steppe,  into  the  darkness  of  the  night.  That 's 
the  way  it  was.  Falcon ! . . .  " 

Makar  shook  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  filled  it  anew. 

I  cuddled  up  in  my  cloak  and  looked  into  Makar 's  old  face 
that  was  blackened  by  the  wind  and  sun.  Sternly  and  thought- 
fully he  shook  his  head,  murmuring  something  I  could  not  hear ; 
his  thick  gray  mustache  trembled  in  the  wind  which  played 
through  his  dishevelled  hair.  He  resembled  an  old  oak  which, 
though  struck  by  lightning,  still  stands  tall  and  mighty  in  its 
invincible  pride.  The  sea  and  the  shore  whispered  interminably 
together,  and  the  wind  carried  their  whisperings  over  the  steppe. 
Nonka  was  no  longer  singing  and  the  clouds  that  now  covered  the 
sky  made  the  autumn  night  even  more  dark  and  terrible. 

"Loyko  walked  slowly,  step  by  step,  with  bowed  head  and 
hands  hanging  limp  and  lifeless.  Commg  to  the  ravine  near  the 
river,  he  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  moaned.  So  piteously  did  he 
moan  that  my  heart  bled  in  sympathy.    And  yet  I  did  not  come 


MAXIM   GORKI  21 

near  him.  Words  cannot  console  a  man's  sufferings,  can  they?. . 
Yes,  he  sat  thus  for  one  hour,  two  hours,  three  hours — he  sat  mo- 
tionless near  the  river. 

"I  lay  on  the  ground  at  no  great  distance.  The  night  was 
bright,  the  moon  threw  a  silvery  glitter  over  the  whole  steppe, 
so  that  it  was  possible  to  see  everything. 

"Suddenly  I  see  Radda  walking  quickly  from  the  gypsy 
camp  toward  Loyko.  I  was  happy,  oh,  so  happy !  After  all,  Radda 
was  a  most  wonderful  girl !  She  approached  him,  but  he  did  not 
hear  her.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Loyko  started,  took 
his  hands  away  from  his  face  and  raised  his  head.  And  you 
should  have  seen  how  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  grasped  the 
hilt  of  his  knife  !  '  He  will  kill  the  girl ! '  I  said  to  myself.  I  was 
just  on  the  point  of  running  to  the  camp  in  order  to  summon 
help  when  I  heard  these  words:  'Throw  it  away,  or  else  I  will 
blow  your  brains  out!  Do  you  see  this?'  And  Radda  pointed  a 
pistol  at  Zobar's  head.  That's  the  devil  of  a  girl  she  was.  Falcon ! 
'Now,'  thought  I,  'they  are  equally  matclied.  What  will  happen 
next,  I  wonder?' 

"  'Listen  to  me !'  Radda  put  the  pistol  into  her  belt  and  con- 
tinued :  'I  have  come  not  to  kill  you  but  to  make  peace.  Throw 
away  that  knife!'  He  threw  it  away  and  looked  at  her  darkly. 
It  was  wonderful,  brother!  Here  stood  two  creatures  looking  at 
each  other  like  beasts  of  prey,  and  yet  they  were  both  such  brave 
and  splendid  people.  Only  the  bright  moon  beheld  them,  and 
I . . .  Nobody  else. 

"'Now  listen  to  me,  Loyko.  I  love  you!'  He  merely 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  though  he  were  tied  hand  and  foot. 

"  'I  have  seen  many  a  lad,  but  you  are  braver  and  hand- 
somer than  all  the  rest.  The  others  would  all  shave  off  their 
mustache  at  a  single  glance  from  my  eye,  they  would  all  fall  at 
my  feet,  if  I  should  only  a-sk  it.  But  of  what  use  would  it  be? 
With  all  that  they  could  not  please  me,  and  I  would  only  make 
women  out  of  them.  There  arc  very  few  bravo  gyi)sios  iti  the 
world,  very  few,  Loyko.    None  of  thcrn  have  I  ever  loved  Ix-fore, 


22  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

but  now  I  love  you.  And  yet  I  love  my  freedom,  and  this,  Loyko, 
I  love  more  than  you.  But  without  you  I  cannot  live,  even  as  you 
cannot  live  without  me.  And  therefore  I  want  you  to  be  mine, 
with  your  whole  heart  and  soul.    Do  you  hear?' 

"He  smiled.  *  I  hear!  My  heart  is  glad  to  hear  your  words. 
Speak  on ! ' 

"  'I  have  this  much  to  say  yet,  Loyko:  Whatever  you  do, 
I  will  compel  you  to  become  mine.  And  therefore  I  would  advise 
you  to  lose  no  time,  for  my  kisses  and  embraces  are  awaiting  you 
— and  most  ardent  will  they  be,  these  kisses  and  embraces  of 
mine,  Loyko!  In  the  warmth  of  my  arms  you  will  forget  your 
courageous  life,  and  your  beautiful  songs  that  give  so  much  joy 
to  the  gypsy  folk  will  no  longer  reecho  in  the  steppe.  .  .  You  will 
sing  only  tender  love  songs  to  me,  your  Radda . . .  Lose  no  time, 
therefore,  but  do  as  I  say.  To-morrow  you  must  submit  to  me  as 
to  a  superior  officer.  You  will  bow  down  at  my  feet,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  whole  camp,  and  you  will  kiss  my  right  hand —  and 
then  I  will  become  your  wife  ! ' 

"So  that's  what  the  devilish  girl  wanted.  It  was  amazing. 
Such  things  had  happened  only  in  olden  times,  among  Montene- 
grins, but  among  the  gypsies,  never.  Submission  to  a  woman! 
Tell  me.  Falcon,  can  you  imagine  anything  more  ridiculous? 
Why,  you  won't  be  able  to  do  so  in  a  hundred  years.    No,  siree! 

"Loyko  sprang  to  his  feet  and  uttered  a  cry  that  rang 
through  the  whole  steppe,  as  though  a  bullet  had  just  passed 
through  his  breast.    Radda  trembled,  but  did  not  lose  her  nerve. 

"  'Farewell  till  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow  you  will  do  what 
I  have  commanded.    Do  you  hear,  Loyko?' 

"  'I  hear!  I  will  do  it!'  groaned  Zobar,  holding  his  arms 
out  to  her.  But  she  turned  away  from  him.  He  swayed  like  a 
tree  uprooted  by  the  tempest,  and  fell  to  the  ground,  weeping 
and  laughing  hysterically. 

"That's  the  way  the  beautiful  vixen  tortured  the  poor  fel- 
low.   It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  I  brought  him  to  his  senses. 


JMAXIM   GORKI  23 

"I  wonder  what  good  it  does  to  Satan  or  Beelzebub  or  any 
other  devil  when  human  beings  are  plunged  in  such  grief?  What 
pleasure  can  it  give  to  the  Evil  One  to  listen  to  the  heartrending 
groans  of  men  and  women  ?  I  wonder  whether  the  philosophers 
know  anything  about  it  ? . . . 

"I  returned  to  the  camp  and  told  everything  to  the  old 
men.  They  deliberated  for  some  time  and  at  last  decided  to  wait 
and  see  how  all  this  would  turn  out.  And  this  is  what  happened : 
As  we  were  all  sitting  around  the  camp-fire  the  next  evening, 
Loyko  came  to  us.  He  looked  thoughtful,  his  features  were  ter- 
ribly emaciated  and  there  were  black  rings  under  his  eyes  which 
he  kept  fixed  on  the  ground.  Without  looking  at  us  he  said: 
'Listen  to  me,  comrades.  This  night  I  have  searched  my  heart 
and  I  no  longer  find  in  it  any  place  for  my  old  freedom.  Radda 
alone  now  lives  in  it,  and  nothing  else.  Here  she  is,  the  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  Radda,  smiling  like  a  queen !  She  loves  her 
freedom  more  than  she  loves  me,  but  I,  I  love  her  more  than  I 
love  my  freedom,  and  I  have  therefore  determined  to  fall  at  her 
feet.  Thus  has  she  commanded  me  to  do,  in  order  that  you  might 
all  see  how  her  loveliness  has  enslaved  the  dauntless  Loyko  Zobar 
who,  before  he  knew  Radda,  used  to  play  with  women  as  the 
vulture  plays  with  ducks.  After  that,  however,  she  will  become 
my  wifo,  fondling  me  with  her  kisses  and  embraces,  so  that  I 
shall  no  longer  have  any  desire  to  sing  to  you,  or  any  regrets 
over  the  loss  of  my  freedom!  Am  I  right,  Radda?' —  Raising 
his  eyes,  he  looked  at  her  sadly.  She  said  nothing  in  reply,  but 
nodded  her  head  vigorously  and  pointed  at  her  feet.  And  we 
looked  on  in  sorrow  and  amazement,  not  understanding  it  at  all. 
We  felt  as  though  wc  wanted  to  go  far  away,  so  that  we  might 
not  see  Loyko  Zobar  falling  at  a  woman's  foot,  even  though  this 
woman  was  Radda  herself.  Wc  were  overcome  with  a  feeling  of 
shame,  [)ity  and  sorrow  ;if  this  siid  spectacle. 

"  'Well?'  said  Radda  to  Zobar. 

"  'Ah,  do  not  be  so  hasty!    Tliero's  plenty  of  time  for  that 


24  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

yet.  You  will  have  glory  enough  to-day!'  laughed  Loyko.  Like 
the  clashing  of  steel — that's  how  his  laughter  sounded. 

"  'Well,  then,  comrades,  this  is  the  whole  story.  "What  else 
is  there  left  for  me  to  do?  This  much.  It  is  necessary  for  me 
to  find  out  whether  my  Radda's  heart  is  really  so  hard  as  she 
has  shown  it  to  be.  And  that's  what  I  am  going  to  fimd  out 
now .  . .  Pardon  me,  my  dear  comrades ! ' 

"And  before  we  could  realize  what  Zobar  was  about,  Radda 
was  already  lying  on  the  ground,  and  in  her  breast  stuck  Loyko 's 
crooked  knife  up  to  its  very  hilt.    "We  all  stood  as  if  paralyzed. 

But  Radda  drew  the  knife  out  of  her  heart,  threw  it  aside, 
pressed  a  lock  of  her  black  hair  to  the  open  wound,  smiled  and 
spoke  up  loudly  and  clearly:  'Farewell  Loyko!  I  knew  that 
you  would  act  like  this ! ' . . .  And  with  these  words  on  her  lips 
she  died. 

"Do  you  understand  now  what  kind  of  a  girl  she  was, 
Falcon?  What  a  woman !  May  I  be  forever  cursed  if  she  wasn't 
the  daughter  of  the  very  devil  himself !     Yes,  siree ! 

"  'And  now,  my  proud  queen,  I  M^ill  fall  at  your  feet!'  he 
cried  aloud,  did  this  Loyko,  and  the  whole  steppe  reechoed  veith 
his  words.  He  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  pressed  his  lips  to 
the  feet  of  the  dead  Radda,  and  remained  as  though  lifeless  him- 
self.   We  removed  our  caps  and  surrounded  the  two  in  silence. 

"What  do  you  think  of  such  a  story.  Falcon?... 

"At  last  Nur  wanted  to  say:  'We  ought  to  bind  him !'  But 
not  a  hand  would  have  been  raised  to  bind  Loyko  Zobar,  and 
Nur  knew  it.  Danila,  however,  picked  up  the  knife  that  Radda 
had  cast  aside  and  looked  at  it  for  a  long  time.  His  lips  quiv- 
ered. Radda's  blood  was  still  warm  upon  this  knife,  and  it  was 
so  sharp  and  crooked!  Then  Danila  approached  Zobar  and 
plunged  the  knife  into  his  back,  just  over  the  heart.  For  he  was 
after  all  the  father  of  Radda,  was  this  old  soldier,  Danila. 

"  'Well  done!'  said  Loyko  in  a  ringing  voice,  turning  to- 


MAXIM    GORKI  25 

ward  Danila.  And  then  he  sank  down  at  Radda's  side  and  his 
soul  followed  hers  out  of  the  world. 

"And  there  before  our  eyes  lay  Radda,  her  hand  with  its 
black  lock  of  hair  pressed  to  her  bosom,  her  wide  open  eyes  turned 
toward  the  skj%  and  at  her  feet  lay  the  handsome  form  of  Loyko 
Zobar.  His  hair  had  fallen  over  his  face,  and  so  we  could  not 
see  his  features. 

"We  stood  lost  in  deep  thought.  Old  Danila's  gray  mus- 
tache trembled  and  terrible  was  the  look  in  his  dark  eyes.  He 
gazed  toward  the  sky,  but  said  not  a  word.  But  the  old  and 
feeble  Nur  threw  himself  face  downward  on  the  ground  and  wept 
like  a  child. 

"And  there  was  good  cause  for  weeping.  Falcon!  Yes, 
siree!.  .  . 

"Well,  then,  God  be  with  you,  my  friend.  Keep  going 
straight  ahead  and  do  not  turn  aside.  You  will  only  rot  away 
if  you  stay  in  one  place.     That's  all.  Falcon!" 

Makar  stopped,  put  his  pipe  into  his  tobacco  pouch  and 
threw  the  folds  of  his  cloak  over  his  breast.  The  rain  was  drizz- 
ling, the  storm  increased  and  the  surf  pounded  against  the 
shore  with  a  loud  and  hollow  growl.  One  after  another  the 
horses  came  near  the  dying  fire,  looked  at  us  with  their  big,  in- 
telligent eyes  and  stood  around  us  in  a  big  circle. 

"Hop,  hop,  ehoi!"  Makar  called  out  to  them  in  a  friendly 
voice;  and  as  he  was  stroking  the  neck  of  his  favorite  animal 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  said  turning  to  me:  "It  is  time 
to  sleep!"  Covering  his  head  with  his  cloak  he  stretched  out 
on  the  ground  and  soon  fell  asleep.  Rut  I  had  no  desire  to  sleep. 
I  gazed  through  the  darkness  of  the  stepf)e  at  the  roaring  ocean, 
and  I  could  see  before  me  the  queenly  figure  of  the  proud  and 
lovely  Radda.  She  held  her  hand  with  the  lock  of  her  black 
hair  tightly  pressed  against  her  wound  and  through  her  slender 
brown  fingers  trickled  the  blood  from  her  breast,  drop  by  drop, 
and  they  fell  upon  the  earth  like  ruddy  stars  of  fire. 


26  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

And  behind  her,  close  upon  her  heels,  hovered  the  brave 
Loyko  Zobar.  His  face  was  veiled  by  his  thick  black  hair  behind 
which  his  cold  big  tears  flowed  in  a  steady  stream . . . 

The  rain  fell  faster  and  the  wind  sang  a  sad  and  solemn 
dirge  to  the  proud  pair — Loyko  Zobar  and  Radda,  the  daughter 
of  old  Danila.  And  the  two  shadows  whirled  silently  around 
each  other  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  yet  never  was  the  singer, 
Loyko,  able  to  overtake  his  proud,  beloved  Radda. . . 


Because  of  Monotony 

I 

~|3UFFING  voluminous  volleys  of  thick  gray  smoke,  the  pas- 
I  senger-train,  like  an  enormous  reptile,  disappeared  in  the 
distance  of  the  steppe,  engulfed  in  the  yellow  sea  of  growing 
corn.  The  rumbling  of  the  train  seemed  to  merge  with  the  smoke 
in  the  hot  atmosphere,  and  for  several  moments  interrupted  the 
indifferent  silence  of  the  vast,  deserted  plain,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  little  railroad  station,  because  of  its  isolation,  aroused 
an  impression  of  sadness. 

And  when  the  muffled,  but  insistent  noise  of  the  train  had 
grown  fainter  and  died  away  under  the  clear  dome  of  the  cloud- 
less sky,  silence  once  more  resumed  its  oppressive  reign,  adding 
to  the  desolate  monotony  of  the  steppe. 

The  steppe  looked  now  a  golden  yellow;  the  vault  of  the 
heavens  was  a  luminous  blue;  two  colors  of  incommensurable 
vastness.  The  dark  walls  of  the  station  planted  in  their  midst 
produced  the  effect  of  an  accidental  stroke  of  the  brush,  which 
marred  the  centre  of  that  melancholy  picture,  patiently  painted 
by  some  artist  devoid  of  imagination  and  inspiration. 

Every  day,  at  noon  and  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
there  arrived  at  the  station,  on  their  way  across  the  stoppe, 
trains  that  stopped  for  four  minutes.  These  precious  minutes 
provided  the  only  distraction  at  the  station:  they  brought 
impressions  to  the  station  employees. 

Each  train  has  a  multitude  of  distinct  ])orsons,  dressed  in 
various  manners.  They  appear  for  a  moment;  behind  the  little 
windows  of  the  coaches  they  pass  rai)i(lly  by,  with  weary  face, 
impatient,  indifferent;  the  signal  is  given,  the  whistle  blows,  and 
with  a  nerve-wracking  noise  t)u-y  fly  off  across  the  steppe,  far 

27 


28  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

away,  toward  the  city,  where  men  and  women  throng  in  throb- 
bing life. 

To  the  station  employees,  who  are  sorely  bored  in  their  soli- 
tude, it  is  most  interesting  to  behold  these  faces;  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  train  they  exchange  impressions  that  have  been 
hastily  gathered.  About  them  extends  the  silent  steppe,  above 
them  floats  the  indifferent  sky,  and  within  their  hearts  they  har- 
bor obscure  envy  toward  the  men  who  every  day  ride  by,  speed- 
ing on  to  some  unknown  place,  while  they  remain  there,  pris- 
oners of  the  desert,  as  if  living  apart  from  life  and  in  the  impos- 
sibility of  seeing  any  human  countenance,  except  during  the 
two  hundred  and  forty  seconds  each  day. 

And  after  the  train  has  gone  they  remain  rooted  to  the 
platform,  their  eyes  following  the  black  thread  that  disappears 
in  the  golden  sea  of  the  prairies,  silent  before  the  manifestation 
of  life  flying  past  them. 

Thc}^  are  almost  all  there:  the  chief,  a  corpulent  red-faced 
personage  with  the  mustache  of  a  Cossack ;  his  aide,  a  young  fel- 
low with  reddish  hair  and  a  pointed  little  beard ;  the  watchman 
Luka,  short,  inquisitive  and  wily,  and  one  of  the  switchmen, 
Gomozov,  a  taciturn  peasant,  robust,  with  black  hair,  serious  and 
full  face. 

Near  the  door  of  the  station,  seated  on  a  bench,  is  the  chief's 
wife,  a  fat  little  woman  who  suffers  much  from  the  heat ;  in  her 
lap  slumbers  an  infant  with  cheeks  as  bulging  and  as  red  as 
his  mother's. 

The  locomotive  and  the  coaches  disappear  behind  a  slope, 
as  if  the  train  had  been  swallowed  by  the  earth. 

Then  the  chief  turns  to  his  wife  and  says: 

' '  Well  Sofia !    Is  the  samovar  ready  ? ' ' 

' '  It  certainly  is, ' '  she  replies  sweetly,  with  a  languid  voice. 

"Luka!  Hey  there!  Sweep  the  road.  Can't  you  see 
they've  filled  it  with  all  kinds  of  filth?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  Matvei  Yegorovitch. " 


MAXIM    GORKI  29 

"Very  well.     Shall  we  have  tea,  Nikolai  Petrovitch?" 

"So  as  not  to  break  the  custom, ' '  replies  the  aide. 

And  when  the  four  o'clock  train  has  left,  Matvei  Yegoro- 
vitch  says  to  his  wife : 

"Well  Sofia!     Is  dinner  ready?" 

Then  he  gives  the  order  to  Luka,  —  always  the  same  order, 
and  invites  his  aide  who  dines  with  them. 

"Good.  .  .  .  Shall  we  eat?" 

And  his  aide  replies,  properly: 

"As  always." 

They  walk  from  the  platform  to  the  dining-room,  where 
there  are  many  flowers  and  few  pieces  of  furniture,  —  where  the 
odor  of  the  kitchen  is  perceptible,  as  well  as  that  of  the  infant's 
swaddling-clothes,  and  there,  seated  around  the  table,  they  speak 
of  what  speeds  by  the  station. 

"Did  you  notice,  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  a  brunette  dressed  in 
yellow  who  was  in  one  of  the  second-class  coaches  ?  There  was  a 
stunning  beauty  for  you!" 

"Not  at  all  bad,  but  dressed  without  taste,"  answered  the 
aide. 

lie  always  spoke  in  a  curt,  sententious  manner,  for  he  be- 
lieved himself  to  be  an  educated  man,  conversant  with  life.  He 
had  been  to  college.  In  a  little  note-book  bound  in  black  cloth 
he  was  wont  to  inscribe  sayings  of  famous  men,  pli rases  culled 
from  the  feuilletons  of  newspapers  and  from  the  books  that  came 
by  accident  into  his  hands.  The  chief  never  contradicted  him; 
in  all  matters  tliat  did  not  concern  the  service  he  listened  atten- 
tively to  his  adjutant.  Tiie  wise  aphorisms  from  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch's  notf'-book  pleased  him  especially,  and  he  was  frank  in 
his  admiration  of  them.  The  aide's  "but"  in  regard  to  the 
brunette  evoked  a  query  from  Matvei  Yegorovitch. 

"Then  you  don't  think  that  yellow  becomes  brunettes?" 

"I  refer  to  her  manner,  not  the  color,"  explained  Nikolai 


30  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

Petrovitch,  carefully  taking  some  preserves  which  he  brought 
forth  from  a  crystal  jar  to  place  in  the  dessert  plate. 

"Manner  is  a  thing  by  itself,"  admitted  the  chief. 

His  wife  joined  in  the  discussion,  for  such  a  subject  was 
within  her  scope  and  of  direct  concern  to  her. 

But  since  the  minds  of  such  persons  are  very  little  exercised 
the  conversation  proceeds  slowly,  rarely  penetrating  to  their 
feelings. 

And  through  the  window  the  silent  steppe  gazes  in  upon 
them,  and  the  sky,  majestic  in  its  proud  serenity. 

At  every  moment  freight  trains  arrive,  but  the  personnel  of 
these  trains  has  been  known  to  them  for  a  long  time.  They  are 
all  half-asleep  fellows,  oppressed  by  the  monotony  of  the  jour- 
neys across  the  steppe.  Of  course  sometimes  they  relate  an 
accident  that  occurred  on  the  line.  But  news  of  this  character 
arouses  no  reflection:  it  is  devoured  just  as  epicures  swallow  a 
rare  and  savory  dish. 

And  the  sun  slowly  descends  in  the  heavens,  until  it  reaches 
the  edge  of  the  steppe,  and  when  it  has  almost  touched  the  earth 
it  turns  purple.  A  red  tint  covers  the  plain,  which  awakes  an 
apprehensive  mood  of  insufficiency,  a  vague  aspiration  towards 
something  far  away,  beyond  that  emptiness.  The  rim  of  the 
sun  then  touches  the  earth.  For  a  long  time  after  its  disappear- 
ance there  sounds  in  the  sky  the  music  of  the  sunset's  resplen- 
dent colors,  and  twilight  arrives,  warm  and  silent.  The  stars 
light  up  and  tremble  in  the  heavens,  as  if  terrified  by  the  mono- 
tony that  reigns  on  earth. 

"With  the  coming  of  twilight  the  steppe  grows  smaller;  the 
darknesses  of  dusk  arise  from  all  directions  and  make  for  the 
station,  and  night  falls,  black  and  lugubrious. 

The  station  lamps  are  lighted ;  brighter  and  higher  than 
the  others  is  the  light  of  the  signal-desk.  Around  it,  darkness 
and  silence. 

At  each  instant  there  is  the  sound  of  a  bell :  a  signal  that 


MAXIM   GORKI  31 

a  train  is  approaching ;  the  funeral  tolling  of  the  bell  crosses  the 
steppe,  where  it  is  quickly  extinguished. 

A  short  while  after  the  ringing,  a  vivid  light  draws  nearer, 
and  the  silence  of  the  steppe  trembles  with  the  muffled  noise  of 
the  train,  which  rolls  toward  the  solitary  station,  surrounded  by 
darkness. 

II 

The  lower  stratum  of  the  society  of  the  station  maintains  a 
life  somewhat  distinct  from  that  of  the  aristocracy.  The  watch- 
man Luka  struggles  perpetually  with  his  desire  to  run  off  to  his 
wife  and  his  brother,  who  live  in  the  town,  seven  versts  away. 
That's  where  his  home  is,  as  he  says  to  Gomozov  when  he  orders 
the  taciturn,  leisurely  switchman  to  lend  a  helping  hand  in  the 
station. 

At  the  word  "home"  Gomozov  always  sighs  heavily  and 
says  to  Luka : 

"Yes,  you're  right.  .  .  One's  home  requires  care.  .  .  . 

And  the  other  switchman,  Afanassi  Yagodka,  an  old  soldier 
with  a  round,  ruddy  face  encircled  by  gray  hairs,  and  of  jest- 
ing, malicious  propensities,  refuses  to  believe  Luka. 

"Home!"  he  exclaims  mockingly.  "Ilis  wife!  I  know  very 
well  what  that  means.  ...  Is  your  wife  a  widow?  Or  perhaps 
some  soldier's  spouse?" 

"Shut  up,  you  king  of  the  fowl!"  retorts  Luka,  scornfully. 

He  dubs  Yagodka  king  of  the  fowl  because  the  old  soldier 
professes  a  deep  affection  for  birds.  Ills  entire  house  is  covered, 
inside  as  well  as  outside,  with  cages  and  dove-cotes;  within  and 
without,  all  day  long  is  heard  the  ceaseless  trilling  and  cooing  of 
the  birds.  Imprisoned  by  the  soldier  the  quails  sing  their  mono- 
tonous "pay  your  debts,"  the  starlings  ninnuur  long  discourses, 
many-colored  birds  whisper  tirelessly,  whistle  or  trill,  enlivening 
the  soldier's  sombre  existence.  Taking  care  of  them  during  the 
time  left  free  to  him  by  his  work,  he  treats  them  with  the  ut- 


32  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

most  tenderness  and  solicitude,  not  interesting  himself  at  all  in 
his  companions. 

Luka  he  calls  a  snake,  —  Gomozov  a  katsap,*  and  openly 
terms  them  "women  chasers,"  saying  that  they  should  be 
whipped  for  it. 

Luka  gives  little  heed  to  his  words;  but  if  the  soldier  suc- 
ceeds in  rousing  his  anger,  for  a  long  time  he  grumbles  in  most 
offensive  manner. 

"Gray  barracks  beast!  Garrison  rat!  What  can  you  un- 
derstand? You  spent  your  whole  life  chasing  the  frogs  behind 
the  cannons.  Who's  telling  you  to  say  anything?  Back  to 
your  partridges,  —  command  them,  order  your  fowl  about ! ' ' 

Yagodka,  after  having  heard  the  watchman 's  insults,  calmly 
went  to  lodge  complaint  with  the  chief,  who  shouted  that  he 
didn't  want  people  coming  to  him  and  pestering  him  with  non- 
sense, and  dismissed  the  soldier  unceremoniously.  Whereupon 
the  soldier  betook  himself  to  Luka  and  in  his  turn  insulted  him 
without  getting  excited  about  it,  calmly,  with  execrable  words 
full  of  meaning,  until  Luka  dashed  off,  leaving  him  alone. 

' '  What  can  you  do  ?  There 's  no  getting  along  with  that  fel- 
low! No  doubt  it's  all  silly;  just  the  same,  'Judge  not  that  ye 
be  not  judged.  .  .  .'  " 

On  a  certain  occasion  the  soldier  answered  him  with  a 
loud  guffaw. 

"Poll-parrot!  'Judge  not,  judge  not.  .  .  .'  why,  if  people 
didn't  judge  one  another  they'd  have  nothing  to  talk  about." 

Besides  the  chief's  wife  there  was  another  woman  in  the 
station,  —  the  cook.  Her  name  was  Arina ;  she  was  almost  forty, 
and  very  ugly:  obese,  with  hanging  breasts,  always  dirty  and 
ragged.  She  waddled  like  a  duck,  and  in  her  freckled  face 
beamed  two  little  darting  eyes  surrounded  by  a  network  of 
wrinkles.  There  was  something  submissive,  oppressed,  about 
her  ill-formed  person,  and  her  fleshy  lips  curled  out  constantly, 

*  Name  given  by  inhabitants  of  Qreat  Russia  to  those   of  Little  Russia. 


MAXIM   GORKI  33 

as  if  she  wanted  to  implore  pardon  of  all  men,  throw  herself  at 
their  feet,  yet  not  daring  to  cry.  Gomozov  spent  eight  months 
in  the  station  without  paying  any  special  heed  to  the  cook ;  when- 
ever he  met  her  he  would  simply  wish  her  "good  day!"  She 
would  reply  in  like  manner,  they  would  exchange  two  or  three 
sentences  and  would  continue  on  their  way.  But  one  day  Gomo- 
zov came  to  the  chief's  kitchen  to  ask  Arina  to  mend  a  few  of 
his  shirts.  The  cook  consented,  and  after  they  were  mended, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  she  brought  them  to  Gomozov  in 
person. 

"Ah!  A  thousand  thanks!"  he  said.  "Three  shirts  at  ten 
kopeks  apiece  makes  thirty  kopeks  I  owe  you,  —  correct?" 

"Correct,"  replied  Arina. 

Gomozov  sank  into  a  revery  and  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"What  district  do  you  come  from?"  he  finally  asked  the 
woman,  who,  while  he  was  mediating  had  scrutinized  his  beard. 

"From  Riazan,"  she  answered. 

"That's  very  far!     And  how  do  you  come  here?" 

"Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  ....  I'm  alone  ....  all  alone—" 

"That  can  carry  one  farther  still,"  sighed  Gomozov. 

There  followed  a  long  silence. 

"What  a  coincidence!  I,  too,  am  alone,  I  come  from  the 
district  of  Sergatch,"  Gomozov  began  to  say.  "I,  too  am  alone 
....  all  alone.  I  once  had  a  wife.  ...  a  child,  two  children.  .  .  . 
My  wife  died  during  an  epi(h'mic  of  cholera,  and  the  children.  .  . 
from  something  or  otiicr,  j^erhaps  because  their  last  hour  had 
come.  .  .  .  died,  too.  And  I, .  .  .  .  how  shall  I  say?  I  was  left 
without  a  compass  to  guide  me.  .  .  .  Misfortune.  .  .  .  Yes,  after 
that  I  tried  witiiout  success  to  establish  myself  once  more.  But 
the  machine  had  fallen  apart;  it  no  longer  worked  and  I  began 
to  go,  as  one  would  say,  out  of  my  path.  .  .  .  And  here  it  is  three 
years  that  I've  dragged  along  in  my  wretchedness." 

"It's  bad  not  to  have  a  husband !"  murmured  Arina  sweetly. 
'I  should   think  so.     You  arc  a  widow,  perhaps?" 


( < 


34  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

"Unmarried." 

' '  You  don 't  say  ! ' '  exclaimed  Gomozov  incredulously. 

' '  Upon  my  word ! ' '  affirmed  Arina. 

"How  is  it  you  never  married?" 

"Who  was  going  to  take  me?  I've  nothing  ....  how 
could  I  tempt  anyone  ?    If  I  'd  have  been  good-looking  at  least ! ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  slowly  uttered  Gomozov,  who  had  remained  meditat- 
ing. 

And  stroking  his  beard  he  began  to  examine  her  with  pene- 
trating glance.  .  .  .    Then  he  inquired  what  wages  she  received. 

"Two  fifty." 

"Good.  There  are  thirty  kopeks  coming  to  you?  Listen 
to  what  I  say  to  you.  Come  for  them  tonight.  .  .  .  around  ten 
o'clock.  What  do  you  say?  I'll  give  them  to  you  then,  we'll 
have  tea,  and  we  '11  dance  to  drive  away  the  monotony.  .  .  .  We  're 
both  so  lonesome.  .  .  .  Come,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  come,"  she  promised,  impatiently. 

And  she  left. 

Later,  having  returned  to  the  house  punctually  at  ten 
o'clock,  she  departed  from  Gomozov  at  dawn. 

He  did  not  repeat  his  invitation,  nor  did  he  give  her  the 
thirty  kopeks. 

Arina  came  again  of  her  own  accord,  meek  and  submissive, 
and  silently  planted  herself  before  him.  He,  stretched  out 
upon  the  bed,  gazed  at  her  and  rolling  toward  the  wall,  said, 
"Sit  down." 

When  she  had  sat  down  he  admonished  her: 

"Hear  what  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Keep  this  secret.  Let  nobody 
know!  ....  Understand?  Otherwise  things  would  be  very  un- 
pleasant. ...  I'm  no  youngster,  nor  are  you,  either.  .  .  .  Under- 
stand?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively. 

When  they  parted  he  gave  her  some  clothes  that  needed 
mending  and  warned  her  again: 


MAXIM   GORKI  35 

"Nobody!    Not  a  soul!" 

And  thus  they  lived,  hiding  their  relations  from  everybody. 

Arina  came  to  his  house  in  spite  of  all,  almost  dragging 
herself.  He  received  her  with  great  condescension,  affecting 
lordly  airs,  and  at  times  he  would  say  to  her,  frankly : 

"How  ugly  you  are!" 

She  would  smile  in  silence,  —  an  insipid,  guilty  smile,  and 
when  she  left  him  she  would  take  along  something  to  repair. 

They  did  not  meet  often.  But  on  various  occasions,  en- 
countering her  at  the  station,  he  would  say  to  her  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Come  tonight." 

And  Arina  would  go  meekly,  with  a  serious  expression  on 
her  freckled  face,  as  if  she  were  intent  upon  fulfilling  an  impor- 
tant duty. 

And  when  she  returned  to  the  station  her  countenance  would 
wear  its  habitual  lugubrious  expression  of  guilt  and  fright. 

At  times  she  would  stop  at  some  nook  sheltered  by  a  tree  of 
the  steppe.  Here  reigned  night,  and  in  the  austere  silence  her 
heart  would  compress  with  fear. 

Ill 

On  a  certain  occasion,  after  having  seen  the  four  o'clock 
train  leave,  the  higher  employees  of  the  station  organized  a  tea- 
party  in  the  garden,  before  the  windows  of  Matvei  Yegorovitch 's 
rooms,  in  the  leafy  shade  of  the  poplars. 

It  was  a  hot-weather  castom  that  introduced  a  touch  of 
variety  into  the  monotony  of  their  existence. 

They  would  sip  tea  and  look  at  each  other  in  silence  after 
having  exhausted  all   the  subjects  suggested  by  the  train. 

"It's  even  hotter  today  than  yesterday,"  commented  Matvei 
Yegorovitch,  handing  his  wife  the  jar  and  with  the  other  hand 
wiping  the  perspiration  that  bedewed  his  forehead. 

The  woman  took  tho  jar  and  observed: 


36  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

"It  simply  seems  hotter  because  of  the  monotony." 

"H'm!  .  .  .  .  Perhaps.  .  .  .  Really How  tedious  exis- 
tence is !  Now  cards,  for  example,  are  good  in  cases  like  this.  .  .  . 
But  we  are  only  three.  ..." 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  shrugged  his  shoulders,  blinked,  and 
announced,  in  a  clear  voice: 

"Cards,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  are  the  bankruptcy  of 

intellect." 

"Well  expressed!"  enthused  Matvei  Yegorovitch.  "Very 
well.  'The  bankruptcy  of  intellect'.  .  .  .  Yes.  And  who  said 
that?" 

"Schopenhauer,  a  German  philosopher.  ..." 

' '  A  philosopher !    So-o ! ' ' 

"And  tell  me.  These  philosophers.  .  .  .Are  they,  maybe, 
employees  of  the  Universities?"  asked  Sofia  Ivanovna. 

"It  is.  .  .  .  how  shall  I  explain  it?  ....  it's  not  a  position 
but so  to  say,  a  natural  gift Everybody  can  be  a  philo- 
sopher      Everyone  who's  born  with  the  habit  of  thinking 

about  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  things.  Of  course,  there  are 
philosophers  in  the  universities,  but  you  can  be  one  anywhere 
at  all.  .  .  .  even  if  you  happen  to  be  an  employee  at  a  railroad 
station." 

"And  do  those  in  the  universities  see  very  much?" 

"That  depends  on  their.  .  .  .  intelligence." 

"But  if  there  were  only  one  more  we  could  have  started  a 
fine  game!"  sighed  Matvei  Yegorovitch. 

And  the  conversation  languished. 

The  larks  sing  in  the  blue  heavens,  the  linnets  flit  from 
branch  to  branch  of  the  poplars,  chirping  sweetly.  Inside  a 
child  is  crying. 

"Is  Arina  there?"  asked  Matvei  Yegorovitch. 

"Certainly,"  replied  his  wife  in  a  low  voice. 

"A  queer  creature,"  observed  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

"Eccentricity  is  the  first  manifestation  of  triviality,"  re- 


MAXIM   GORKI  37 

marked  Nikolai  Petrovitch  sententiously,  with  a  dreamy,  medi- 
tative air. 

"How's  that?"  asked  the  chief,  interested. 

And  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  repeating  the  aphorism  with  a  pro- 
fessorial air,  rolls  his  eyes  in  a  voluptuous  manner,  while  Sofia 
Ivanovna  says,  in  a  languid  little  voice : 

"How  well  you  remember  what  you've  read!  And  here  I 
can't  recall  what  I  read  yesterday!" 

"Habit,"  replied  Nikolai  Petrovitch  curtly. 

"No,  that  other  fellow  is  better.  What  do  you  call  him? 
Schopenhauer?"  said  Matvei  Yegorovitch  with  a  smile.  "So 
that  whatever  is  young  will  become  old." 

"And  vice  versa,  for  a  poet  has  written:  'All  that  is  new 
comes  from  what  has  been  left  by  the  old.'  " 

"The  devil!  How  can  you  remember  all  that?  It  gushes 
from  you  like  water  from  a  fountain!" 

Matvei  Yegorovitch  laughed  contentedly;  his  wife  smiled 
with  a  kindly  air,  and  Nikolai  Petrovitch  tried  in  vain  to  hide 
his  pleasure  at  the  compliment. 

"And  who  said  that  about  triviality?" 

"Bariatinsky,  a  poet." 

"And  that  other  quotation?" 

"Fofanov,  another  poet." 

"There's  a  couple  of  smart  fellows  for  you  !"  enthused  Mat- 
vei Yegorovitch. 

"And  with  a  musical  voice,  laughing  with  contentment,  he 
repeated  the  two  citations. 

It  seems  that  monotony  ])liiys  witli  them.  For  u  moment  it 
frees  them  from  its  clutches,  then  once  more  grasps  them  in  its 
power.  Then  they  become  silent,  suffering  from  the  heat,  which 
is  increased  by  the  tea. 

In  the  station,  only  .silence;  on  the  steppe,  only  the  sun. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  was  about  to  Hpeak  of  Arina!"  recalls  Matvei 
Yegorovitch.    "There's  a  strange  woman  for  you!     I  watch  her 


38  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

with  wonder.  As  if  she  were  crushed  by  something.  She 
doesn't  laugh,  or  sing,  and  speaks  very  little.  .  .  .  You'd  think 
she  was  a  piece  of  wood!  And  yet  she's  a  wonderful  worker, 
and  she's  so  careful  with  Lelia,  so  devoted  to  the  child.  ..." 

He  speaks  in  a  low  voice,  but  wishes  nevertheless  that  Arina 
will  hear  him  through  the  window.  He  knows  that  servants 
swell  with  pride  upon  hearing  themselves  praised.  His  wife 
interrupts  him  with  a  meaningful  rebuke. 

"None  of  that.    You  don't  know  much  about  her." 

Whereupon  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  beating  time  with  a  spoon 
on  the  table,  began  to  murmur  sweetly,  as  if  declaiming: 
A  slave  am  I  of  love, 
And  deep  is  my  despair, 
When  in  the  lists  I  enter, 
'Gainst  you,  my  demon  fair! 

He  smiled. 

"How  now?  What's  that  you're  saying?  She.  .  .  .  Ah, 
you've  got  something  between  you!" 

And  Matvei  Yegorovitch  laughed  heartily.  His  cheeks 
shook  and  beads  of  perspiration  rolled  down  his  forehead. 

"There's  nothing  so  wonderful  about  her,"  said  his  wife. 
"In  the  first  place,  she  doesn't  take  good  care  of  the  child.  In 
the  second,  have  you  noticed  the  kind  of  bread  she  makes  ?  Bit- 
ter, burned.    And  why?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  There  is  something  the  matter  with  the 
bread.  .  .  .  We  '11  have  to  speak  to  her  about  it.  But,  the  deuce ! 
I  didn't  expect  anything  like  this!  So  she's  a  regular  heart- 
breaker?  Devil  take  me!  And  who's  the  man?  Lukachka? 
I'll  tease  the  life  out  of  the  old  devil!  Yagodka?  The  tooth- 
less dandy!" 

"Gomozov,"  said  Nikolai  Petrovitch  curtly. 

"So  grave  a  fellow  as  that!  0-oh !  But  you're.  .  .  .  You're 
not  fooling,  are  you?" 

Such  a  shocking  bit  of  gossip  amused  Matvei  Yegorovitch 


MAXIM   GORKI  39 

immensely.  He  was  soon  laughing  in  loud  outbursts,  tears  com- 
ing to  his  eyes;  first  he  spoke  of  the  necessity  of  giving  the 
lovers  a  severe  reprimand ;  then  he  began  to  imagine  the  tender 
conversations  that  passed  between  them,  and  exploded  anew  in  a 
deafening  roar. 

At  last  he  became  petulant.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  assumed 
a  serious  face,  while  Sofia  Ivanovna  brusquely  interrupted  her 
husband's  talk. 

''The  devil!  I  don't  have  to  pay  his  debts,  do  I?  This  is 
interesting!"  continued  Matvei  Yegorovitch,  unable  to  control 
himself. 

At  this  juncture  Luka  appeared,  saying,  not  very  correctly, 
"The  telegraph  is  calling." 

"I'm  going.    Give  the  signal  to  42." 

In  another  moment  he  was  beside  the  aide  at  the  station, 
where  Luka  replied  to  the  telegraph  call.  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
went  to  the  apparatus  and  asked  the  next  station,  "Can  I  send 
train  42?" 

The  chief  passed  through  the  office,  smiled  and  said,  "We've 
got  to  play  those  devils  a  trick.  Just  to  kill  time  and  conquer 
this  deadly  monotony.  .  .  .  "We  may  well  be  permitted  to  laugh 
for  once." 

"Certainly,  that's  permissible,"  agreed  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
without  leaving  the  apparatus. 

P''or  ho  knew  that  jtliilosophy  must  be  expressed  in  a  laconic 
manner. 

IV 

The  opportunity  for  indulging  in  a  little  laughter  was  not 
slow  in  presenting  itself. 

On  a  certain  night  Oomozov  went  to  the  shack  where  Arina, 
by  his  orrlor  and  with  permi.ssion  of  her  master  had  arranged  n 
bed  amid  all  the  old  furniture.  The  place  was  exposed  and 
damp,  and  the  broken  boxes,  the  casks,  the  tables  and  all  the 


40  STORIES    OF   THE    STEPPE 

other  objects  assumed  in  the  darkness  the  most  terrifying  shapes. 
When  Arina  was  alone  in  the  midst  of  all  this  she  was  so  afraid 
that  she  could  scarcely  sleep,  and  she  recited  all  the  prayers  she 
had  ever  learned,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

Gomozov  came,  and  for  a  long  time  silently  took  her  to  him, 
and  after  he  had  become  tired  he  fell  asleep.  But  he  was  soon 
awakened  by  the  uneasy  whispering  of  Arina. 

"Timofei  Petrovitch.     Tiraofei  Petrovitch!" 

''What's  the  matter?"  asked  Gomozov,  not  yet  thoroughly 
awake. 

"We've  been  locked  in!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed,  sitting  up  with  a 
start. 

"Somebody  came  here  and  with  some  chains.  ..." 

"Are  you  crazy?"  he  grumbled,  angrily  and  in  terror, 
thrusting  her  from  him. 

Gomozov  arose,  and  stumbling  against  several  objects  made 
his  way  to  the  door,  pushed  it,  and  after  a  silence  said,  ill- 
humoredly,  "The  soldier!" 

Someone  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  laughed  gleefully. 

"Open!"  begged  Gomozov  aloud. 

"What's  that?" 

It  was  the  soldier's  voice. 

' '  I  tell  you  to  open ! ' ' 

"Tomorrow  morning,"  replied  the  soldier. 

And  he  went  off. 

"I've  got  to  get  to  work!"  cried  Gomozov,  in  tones  of 
mingled  anger  and  entreaty. 

"I'll  attend  to  your  duties.    Don't  worry." 

"You  dog,  you!"  murmured  the  switchman,-  in  anxiety. 
"Wait  a  while!  You  haven't  any  right  to  lock  me  up.  ...  He 
has  the  key.  .  .  .  What '11  you  tell  him?  He'll  ask,  'Where  is 
Gomozov?'  And.  .  .  .  Ha?.  .  .  .  Answer  him!" 


MAXIM    GORKI  41 

' '  But,  you  must  know  that  the  order  for  this  came  from  the 
chief  himself,"  said  Arina  in  a  low,  despairing  voice. 

"The  chief?"  stammered  Gomozov,  horrified.     "Why?" 

And  then,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"You  lie!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  replied  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"What  will  this  lead  to?"  wondered  the  switchman,  sitting 
down  upon  something  near  the  door.  What  a  disgrace  for  me  I 
And  all  on  account  of  you,  you  ugly  old  witch ! ' ' 

With  his  fists  doubled  up  Gomozov  made  a  threatening  ges- 
ture toward  the  direction  whence  came  the  breathing.  She,  on 
her  side,  was  careful  not  to  say  a  word. 

A  dark  dampness  surrounded  them,  a  darkness  impregnated 
with  the  odor  of  limestone,  mould,  and  something  acrid  that 
seemed  to  pierce  the  nostrils.  Strips  of  moonlight  came  through 
the  cracks  of  the  door.  Behind,  a  freight  train  leaving  the  sta- 
tion rumbled  off  noisily. 

"What  good  is  this  silence?"  asked  Gomozov,  in  a  rage. 
"What  am  I  to  do  now?  First  you  commit  follies  and  then 
you're  silent?  Think,  devil  take  you!  What  are  we  to  do? 
Where  can  T  hide  to  conceal  this  shame?  Oh,  good  Lord  in 
heaven!    Why  did  I  ever  fall  in  with  such  a.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  implon;  pardon,"  said  Arina,  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  then?" 

"Perhaps  they'll  forgive.  ..." 

"What  good  will  that  do  mo?  If  Ihoy  pardon  you!  Well, 
what  then?  On  whom  will  the  disgrace  fall?  It's  me  that 
they'll  laugh  at!" 

After  another  pause  he  began  to  curse  her  anew.  And  the 
time  i)ass('d  with  cruel  slowness.  At  last  the  woman,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  said  to  him,  entreatingly,  "Timofci  Petrovitch, 
forgive  me !" 

"Yon  ought  to  be  forgiven  with  a  good  rap  on  the  head!" 
he  snarled. 


42  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

Again  a  long  silence,  lugubrious,  unnerving,  full  of  suffering 
and  suppressed  anger  for  the  two  persons  imprisoned  in  the 
darkness.  ' 

"Good  heavens!  If  only  day  would  come  more  quickly!" 
wailed  Arina  in  her  perplexity. 

"Shut  up,  or  I'll  knock  daylight  into  you!"  scowled  Gomo- 
zov,  returning  to  his  bitter  reproaches. 

And  once  again  the  torture  of  silence  fell  over  them.  And 
the  cruelty  of  time  increased  with  the  approach  of  day,  as  if 
each  minute  retarded  its  progress,  maliciously  enjoying  the  ludi- 
crous, yet  grievous  situation  of  the  two  persons. 

At  last  Gomozov  fell  asleep,  but  the  song  of  a  rooster,  crow- 
ing near  the  cabin,  awoke  him. 

"Hey  there,  witch!  Are  you  sleeping?"  he  asked,  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

"No,"  answered  Arina,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  nice  little  nap?"  proposed  the  switch- 
man, ironically.    "Come.  ..." 

"Timofei  Petrovitch!"  implored  Arina  with  a  shrill  cry. 
' '  Don 't  torment  me !  Have  pity  on  me !  In  the  name  of  Christ, 
son  of  God,  have  pity  on  me!  I'm  alone,  all  alone!  And  you, 
my  beloved.  ..." 

"None  of  your  howling,  and  don't  make  yourself  ridicu- 
lous," interjected  Gomozov  seriously,  quieting  the  hysteric  mut- 
tering of  the  woman,  who  had  moved  him  somewhat.  "Hush! 
When  the  Lord  begins  to  punish.  ..." 

And  anew  they  waited  in  silence  for  the  passing  of  each 
minute.  But  the  moments  went  by  without  bringing  anything. 
At  last,  through  the  cracks  of  the  door  could  be  seen  the  gleam 
of  the  sun's  rays,  which  illuminated  the  darkness  of  the  cabin. 
Somebody  came  to  the  door,  listened  for  a  moment  and  then 
went  away. 

' '  Hangman ! ' '  growled  Gomozov. 

And  he  spat  out. 


MAXIM   GORKI  43 

Another  period  of  waiting,  silent  and  tyrannical. 

* '  Good  Lord,  I  beg  You  ! ' '  murmured  Arina. 

It  seemed  that  someone  was  slowly  coming  near.  The  chain 
rattled,  and  the  voice  of  the  chief  was  heard. 

"Gomozov!  Take  Arina  by  the  hand  and  come  out!  At 
once ! ' ' 

"Come,"  said  Gomozov  to  her,  in  a  low  voice. 

Arina,  with  bowed  head,  came  over  to  his  side. 

The  door  was  opened ;  the  chief  appeared.  He  saluted  and 
said,  "My  congratulations  to  the  young  couple!  Forward! 
Strike  up  the  band!" 

Gomozov  passed  the  threshold  and  came  to  a  sudden  halt, 
stupefied  by  a  wild,  confused  tumult.  Behind  the  door  were 
Luka,  Yagodka  and  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

Luka  was  beating  his  fist  against  a  pail,  howling  something 
in  a  quivering  tenor  voice ;  the  soldier  was  blowing  his  bagpipe, 
and  Matvei  Yegoroviteh  was  making  wild  gestures,  his  cheeks 
puffed  out,  and  making  a  trumpet-like  sound  through  his  lips. 

Pum,  pum!    Pum-pum-pum! 

The  pail  thumped,  the  bagpipe  wheezed  and  groaned,  and 
Matvei  Yegoroviteh  laughed  madly.  His  aide,  too,  exploded 
with  laughter  when  he  beheld  Gomozov  in  utter  confusion,  with 
a  sinister  face  and  silly  laugh  upon  his  treinbliiig  lips.  Behind 
him  was  Arina,  half  petrified,  her  head  bowed  low  upon  her 
breast. 

"Arina,  to  her  lover. 
Spoke  very  tender  words." 

Luka  sang,  making  terrible  gestures  in  Gomozov 's  direction. 

And  the  soldier  approached.  Placing  his  bagpipe  next  to 
the  switchman's  ear  he  played  on  and  on. 

"Excellent.  Now  proceed,  proceed.  Ann  in  arm!"  cried 
the  chief. 

His  wife  was  seated  in  the  vestibule,  and  she  swayed  from 
side  to  side,  uttering  penetrating  shrieks. 


44  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

"Motria,  enough.  Oh,  I'll  die  of  laughing!" 
Who,  for  a  taste  of  the  beauty's  lips. 
Wouldn't  brave  the  stoutest  whips? 

It  was  the  aide  who  sang,  almost  into  Gomozov's  ear. 

"Long  live  the  young  couple!"  shouted  Matvei  Yegorovitch 
as  Gomozov  took  a  step  forward. 

And  from  the  throats  of  all  rose  a  unanimous  hurrah,  the 
soldier  shouting  with  a  roaring  bass, 

Arina  walked  behind  Gomozov  with  raised  head,  her  mouth 
open,  her  arms  hanging  at  her  side.  Her  eyes  peered  vaguely 
forward,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  saw  anything. 

"Motria,  order  them  to  embrace.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"Bride  and  bridegroom,  this  is  bitter!"  shouted  Nikolai 
Petrovitch,  using  the  phrase  employed  at  the  embracing  of  a 
newly-wed  pair. 

And  Matvei  Yegorovitch  leaned  against  a  tree,  for  he  was  so 
weak  from  laughing  that  his  feet  shook  beneath  him. 

And  the  pail  kept  dinning  away,  while  the  bagpipe  wheezed 
and  groaned,  and  Luka  danced  as  he  sang: 
"Oh,  lovely  cook  Arina, 
You've  made  us  a  pretty  thick  soup." 

And  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began  once  more  to  trumpet  through 
his  lips,  "Pum,  pum,  pum!  Tra,  ta,  ta!  Pum,  pum!  Tra,  ta, 
ta!" 

Gomozov  went  as  far  as  the  door  of  a  certain  shanty  and 
suddenly  made  his  escape  through  it.  Arina  was  left  in  the 
yard  .surrounded  by  her  almost  delirious  persecutors.  They 
shouted,  laughed,  whistled  into  her  ears  and  jumped  about  her 
in  a  paroxysm  of  crazy  joy. 

Arina  stood  before  them  with  impassive  countenance,  dirty, 
pitiful,  ridiculous. 

"The  young  bridegroom  has  gone  off,  and  she.  .  .  .  remains 
here, ' '  shouted  Matvei  Yegorovitch  to  his  wife,  pointing  to  Arina 
and  bursting  anew  into  loud  guffaws. 


MAXIM   GORKI  45 

Arina  turned  her  head  toward  him,  walked  by  the  cabin, 
and  suddenly  fled  to  the  steppe.  She  was  followed  by  a  din  of 
whistling,  shouts  and  laughter. 

* '  Enough !  Let  her  alone ! ' '  shouted  Sofia  Ivanovna.  * '  Let 
her  get  back  her  courage.    She  has  to  make  dinner  for  us  soon." 

Arina  went  further  and  further  into  the  steppe,  yonder 
where,  behind  the  land  used  for  the  railroad  there  arose  the 
bristling  fringes  of  the  corn.  She  walked  slowly,  like  one  ab- 
sorbed in  her  thoughts. 

"What's  that  you  say?"  asked  Matvei  Yegorovitch  of  the 
various  actors  in  the  farce,  who  were  recounting  to  each  other 
the  most  trivial  details  of  the  event. 

And  everybody  laughed.  Even  Nikolai  Petrovitch  found  an 
aphorism  for  the  occasion. 

''In  truth  it  is  no  sin 
To  laugh  at  the  ridiculous." 
he  said  to  Sofia  Ivanovna. 

And  then  he  added,  with  an  air  of  importance,  "But  to 
laugh  excessively  is  unhealthy." 

Despite  this,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter  in  the  sta- 
tion that  day;  but  it  didn't  go  so  well  with  the  eating,  for,  since 
Arina  had  not  returned,  the  chief's  wife  had  to  do  the  cooking. 
Yet  even  the  tasteless  meal  wa.s  not  enongli  to  extinguish  the 
good  humor  of  the  group.  Gomozov  did  not  fare  forth  from  the 
cabin  until  his  duties  called  him,  and  when  he  came  out  he  was 
summoned  to  the  chief's  office,  whore  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  much 
to  Matvei  Yegorovitch 's  delight,  asked  jnin  how  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  seducing  his  beauty. 

"F'or  its  originality  it  is  a  sin  of  the  first  class,"  said 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  to  the  chief. 

"It  certainly  is,"  assented  the  composed  switchman  with  a 
forced  laugh. 

For  he  had  suddenly  begun  to  understand  that  by  telling 


46  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

the  story  in  a  manner  to  cast  ridicule  upon  Arina  he  himself 
would  be  less  laughed  at. 

And  he  began: 

"At  first  we  made  eyes  at  each  other.  ..." 

"Made  eyes  at  each  other?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Just  imagine, 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  how  an  ugly  thing  like  that  would  make 
eyes!     This  is  delicious!" 

'  *  Well,  but  she  did  make  them  at  me.  And  when  I  saw  that, 
I  said  to  myself,  '  You  can  have  a  little  amusement ! '  Then  she 
asked  me,  *Do  you  want  me  to  sew  your  shirts?'  " 

"But  the  subtlety  of  the  phrase  was  not  in  the  sewing," 
observed  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

And  he  explained  to  the  chief. 

"That,  you  know,  is  from  Nekrassov.    Continue,  Timofei." 

And  Timofei  continued  his  explanations;  at  first  he  forced 
himself,  then  gradually  he  began  to  believe  his  own  lie,  for  he 
saw  that  his  lie  was  useful. 


And  meanwhile,  she  of  whom  he  spoke  was  stretched  out  in 
the  steppe.  She  had  made  her  way  into  the  depths  of  the  sea  of 
corn,  and  had  dropped  upon  the  earth,  where  she  remained  for 
a  long  time  motionless.  "When  the  hot  sun  began  to  burn  her 
shoulder  until  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  she  turned  over 
with  her  mouth  facing  the  sky,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  so  that  her  eyes  should  not  see  the  heavens,  which  were 
too  clear,  nor  the  sun,  which  was  too  bright. 

Under  the  breath  of  the  wind  the  corn  produced  a  weak 
noise  about  that  woman  crushed  with  shame,  and  the  countless 
crickets  chirped  tirelessly,  as  if  intent  upon  very  important 
business.  And  it  was  hot.  The  woman  tried  to  recall  her  pray- 
ers, but  she  could  not.  Before  her  eyes  there  swayed  in  a  wild 
dance  faces  contracted  with  laughter,  while  in  her  ears  boomed 
the  tenor  voice  of  Luka  and  the  mocking,  querelous  notes  of  the 


MAXIM   GORKI  47 

bagpipe,  and  the  resounding  shouts.  Either  this,  or  the  heat, 
oppressed  her  bosom;  she  tore  open  her  chemise,  exposed  her 
skin  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  hoping,  perhaps,  that  in  this  way 
she  might  breathe  more  comfortably.  And  while  the  sun  toasted 
her  skin,  a  strange  sensation  burrowed  about  within  her  breast. 
With  deep  sighs,  from  time  to  time  she  murmured,  "Good  God, 
I  entreat  You!" 

But  the  only  response  that  came  to  her  ears  was  the  dry 
rustling  of  the  com  and  the  chirping  of  the  crickets.  When  she 
raised  her  head  above  the  waves  of  the  corn  she  beheld  its  gol- 
den reflection,  the  black  chimney  of  the  water-house  that  rose 
behind  the  station  in  the  little  valley,  and  the  roof  of  the  house 
in  which  they  were  all  laughing  at  her  plight.  There  was  noth- 
ing else  in  the  boundless  yellow  plain,  covered  by  the  blue  dome 
of  heaven,  and  to  Arina  it  seemed  that  she  was  all  alone  in  the 
world,  —  that  she  was  stretched  out  exactly  in  its  centre,  and 
that  there  was  none  who  would  offer  to  share  with  her  the  bur- 
den of  solitude. 

At  night  she  heard  cries. 

* '  Arina !    Arina,  —  the  devil ! ' ' 

One  of  the  voices  she  recognized  as  Luka's,  —  the  other  was 
the  soldier.  She  would  have  liked  to  hear  a  certain  other  voice, 
but  that  one  was  not  heard;  then  she  began  to  weep  copiously. 
The  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  and  on  to  her  bosom.  She  wept, 
and  as  she  wept  she  rubbed  her  naked  skin  against  the  earth,  so 
as  not  to  feel  the  inner  burning  that  tormented  her  more  and 
more.  She  cried,  then  tried  to  stop,  stifling  her  groans,  as  if 
afraid  that  someone  would  hear  her  and  forbid  her  to  cry. 

Afterward,  when  night  had  come,  she  arose  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  station. 

Arrived  there  she  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  shack,  and 
there  she  remained  a  long  time,  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  steppe. 
She  could  make  out  a  freight  trjiin  and  she  heard  the  soldier 


48  .  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

relating  the  story  of  her  shame,  and  heard  the  laughter  of  the 
conductors. 

The  night  was  peaceful,  a  moonlit  night.  .  .  .  The  loud  guf- 
faws echoed  afar,  across  the  desolate  steppe,  where  the  sound  of 
the  locomotive's  whistle  died  away. 

"Good  Lord,  I  beg  You!"  sighed  the  woman,  leaning  more 
heavily  against  the  wall. 

But  her  sighs  did  not  lighten  the  burden  that  she  felt  upon 
her  heart. 

The  next  morning  she  made  her  way  into  the  attic  of  the 
station  and  hanged  herself,  using  a  rope  that  formerly  had 
served  for  putting  out  clothes  to  dry. 

Two  days  later,  on  account  of  the  odor  of  the  body,  the 
corpse  was  discovered.  At  first  they  were  afraid,  then  they  be- 
gan to  inquire  as  to  who  was  to  blame.  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
demonstrated  conclusively  that  it  was  Gomozov's  fault.  The 
chief  then  struck  Gomozov  with  his  closed  fist  and  ordered  the 
switchman  to  shut  up. 

The  authorities  began  to  investigate.  As  a  result  they  found 
that  Arina  used  to  suifer  from  attacks  of  melancholy.  .  .  .  The 
laborers  about  the  station  were  ordered  to  bury  the  corpse  in  the 
steppe.  And  when  this  had  been  carried  out,  order  and  quiet 
returned  to  the  station. 

And  its  inhabitants  began  to  live  their  four  minutes  per 
day,  dying  of  monotony  and  solitude,  of  idleness  and  the  heat. 
With  envious  glances  they  followed  the  trains  that  sped  past 
them. 

And  in  winter,  when  the  tempests,  in  a  wild  charge,  loosen 
their  fury  upon  the  steppe,  and  boom  their  wailings,  and 
envelop  the  station  in  snow  and  wild  shrieks,  the  life  of  its 
denizens  becomes  more  monotonous  than  ever. 


The  Man  Who  Could  Not  Die 

(From  ''Old  Isergil") 

IT  was  in  Dobrudja,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Danube,  that  oUl 
Isergil  told  me  the  story  which  I  am  relating  here. 

One  evening,  when  the  grape-gathering  was  over  for  the 
day,  the  Maldavians  employed  in  the  vineyard  went  to  the  sea- 
shore, but  I  remained  alone  with  old  Isergil.  We  lay  on  the 
ground  in  the  thick  shade  of  the  vines,  observing  silently  the 
gradually  disappearing  outlines  of  the  people  as  they  seemed 
more  and  more  to  melt  into  the  gathering  darkness. 

They  were  laughing  and  singing  as  they  strolled  along:  the 
men  —  sunburnt  and  sturdy,  with  long  black  mustache  and 
thick  shocks  of  hair  that  fell  over  their  shoulders,  their  stalwart 
forms  dressed  in  short  jackets  and  wide  trousers;  the  women 
and  the  girls  —  gay,  pretty  and  supple  as  willow  twigs,  with 
dark  blue  eyes  and  tanned  faces  whose  black  and  silk-soft  luiir 
fastened  with  garlands  of  coins,  played  loosely  in  the  warm  aiul 
wanton  breeze.  The  bells  tinkled  softly  as  the  wind  swept  over 
the  wide  ste[)pe.  Now  and  then,  when  a  sudden  puff  rushed 
through  the  darkness  as  though  in  combat  with  an  invisible 
force,  their  hair  was  blown  high  over  their  heatls  in  fanta.stic 
shapes.  Seen  from  a  distance,  these  shapes  gave  to  th(!  gradually 
vanishing  women  a  wdinlti  lul,  fairy-like  appearance.  Farther 
they  went  and  t";iil(irf,  uml  llir  magic  of  the  darkness  threw 
about  them  a  mantle  that  seemed  more  iiinl  more  wonderfully 
fanta.stic. 

Now  arose  the  sound  of  a  violin,  a  girl  sang  in  a  velvety  alto 

49 


50  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

voice,  and  laughter  came  to  our  ears.  And  the  imagination, 
having  burst  the  bonds  of  reality  in  the  bewitching  twilight, 
wove  all  these  sounds  into  a  wreath  of  gaily-colored  ribbons  and 
flowers  of  melody  which  hovered  gracefully  over  the  dim  out- 
lines of  the  toilers. 

The  evening  air  was  becoming  permeated  with  the  sharp 
salty  tang  of  the  sea,  mingled  with  the  warm,  pungent  odor  of 
the  rain-soaked  earth.  A  few  clouds  that  seemed  to  have  been 
torn  away  from  the  recent  rain-storm,  still  straggled  in  the  air, 
curling  softly  and  tinting  with  luxurious  colors  the  western  sky, 
—  now  white  and  feathery,  now  steel-gray,  now,  towering  like 
sun-drenched  cliffs,  golden  and  rosy  and  red,  and  now  black  and 
threatening.  And  through  these  clouds,  fragments  of  blue  sky, 
already  glittering  with  innumerable  stars,  peeped  tenderly  over 
the  steppe.  All  this,  —  the  perfume,  the  clouds,  the  stars  and 
the  people  —  shone  with  a  bewitching  beauty  in  the  fragrant 
golden  twilight;  and  yet  an  atmosphere  of  indescribable  sadness 
hovered  over  everything,  as  at  the  beginning  of  a  fairy  tale. 
Everything  was  alive,  harmoniously  and  beautifully  alive,  and 
yet  the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  be  over  all,  as  though  their 
luxuriant  growth  were  suddenly  arrested.  This  life  lacked  the 
nervous  action  of  real  life;  it  lacked  those  sounds  which  have 
the  power  of  latent  growth.  The  sounds  that  reached  the  ear 
at  this  time,  however,  were  faint  and  broken,  and  as  they  were 
dying  away  they  seemed  to  be  transformed  into  soft  sighs,  — 
sighs  of  regret  and  of  longing.  Longing  for  what  ?  Happiness, 
perhaps,  —  that  elusive,  unrecognizable  will-o  '-the-wisp,  human 
happiness?  .... 

As  these  tones  floated  through  the  air  I  was  filled  with  fan- 
ciful desires.  I  wished  that  I  might  be  tranformed  into  dust 
and  that  I  might  be  blown  by  the  wind  in  every  direction.  I 
longed  to  flow  like  a  warm  stream  through  the  steppe,  to  sweep 
into  the  sea  and  to  rise  in  soft  vapor  amongst  the  beautiful 
clouds.     I  wished  that  I,  and  I  alone,  could  permeate  that  en- 


]VIAXIM    GORKI  51 

tire  sorrowful,  magical  night.  And  I  became  melancholy  with- 
out myself  knowing  the  reason  why. 

* '  Why  haven 't  you  gone  with  the  others  ? ' '  asked  old  Isergil 
as  she  nodded  toward  the  sea. 

She  was  bent  with  old  age,  almost  doubled  like  a  half- 
closed  jack-knife.  Her  once  dark  blue  eyes  were  sad  and  tearful. 
Her  voice  sounded  dry  and  thin,  without  the  slightest  vibration. 
Her  words  seemed  to  issue  from  her  creaking  bones.  It  was  a 
miracle  that  she  could  still  speak  at  all ! 

"I  didn't  care  to,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  well,  well!  You  are  born  old,  you  people  of  the 
North.  You  are  as  sullen  as  the  very  devil.  Our  girls  are  afraid 
of  you,  and  yet  you  are  so  young  and  strong. ' ' 

The  moon  had  risen.  Its  orb  was  big  and  blood-red.  It 
seemed  to  have  been  born  out  of  the  womb  of  the  steppe  which 
had  grown  fat  and  fertile  through  the  centuries  with  the  flesh 
and  the  blood  of  numberless  human  victims  swallowed  therein. 
The  shadows  of  the  vine  leaves  wove  delicate  lace  patterns 
around  us,  covering  us  as  with  a  net  whose  meshes  danced  and 
trembled  without  end.  And  to  the  left  of  us  quivered  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  bright  and  transparent  in  the  shimmer- 
ing moonbeams.  We  coukl  just  barely  hear  the  murmur  of  the 
sea  in  the  distance,  the  soft  weeping  of  the  violin,  the  cheerful 
laughter  of  a  young  girl,  the  vibrant  baritone  of  her  companion, 
—  all  harmonizing  with  the  regular  lilt  and  ripple  of  the  waves 
against  the  shore. 

"Look!     There  comes  Larra!" 

I  followed  with  my  eyes  the  crooked  linger  of  old  isrrgil 
and  I  saw  quivering  shadows,  many  shadows,  —  and  one  of  Ukmii, 
darker  and  thifker,  hovered  lower  and  faster  than  the  rest.  It 
was  the  shadow  of  a  layer  of  clfjuds  that  moved  over  the  sky 
faster  and  lower  than  the  clouds  directly  overhead. 

"I  sec  nobody  there,"  I  .said. 

Why,  you  are  blinder  than  I,  old  woman  though  I  am.    Look, 


52  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

there  —  don't  you  see?  That  black  thing  that  flies  so  fast  over 
the  steppe." 

I  looked  again,  and  once  more  I  saw  nothing  but  shadows, 

"That  is  nothing  but  a  shadow,"  I  said.  "Why  do  you  call 
it  Larra?" 

*  *  Because  it  is  Larra !  He  has  turned  into  a  mere  shadow. 
And  it  is  time  he  did !  He  has  been  living  for  thousands  of  years 
already,  and  the  sun  has  sucked  out  all  his  blood  and  marrow 
and  the  wind  has  shrivelled  up  his  body.  Thus  does  God  punish 
human  beings  for  their  overweening  pride ! ' ' 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  begged  of  the  old  gipsy,  already  pic- 
turing to  myself  one  of  those  exquisite  fairy  tales  the  like  of 
which  you  can  hear  only  in  the  steppe. 

And  old  Isergil  began  her  story: 

"It  happened  many  thousands  of  years  ago.  Far  over  the 
sea,  toward  the  rising  of  the  sun  lies  the  land  of  the  Great 
Stream,  and  in  that  land  every  leaf  on  every  tree  and  every 
blade  of  grass  gives  out  just  as  much  shade  as  a  man  needs  in 
order  to  shield  himself  against  the  sun,  which  shines  there  with 
a  terrible  blaze.    So  generous  is  the  earth  in  that  country ! 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  that  land  a  race  of  mighty 
men  who  tended  their  herds  and  spent  their  days  in  hunting 
wild  beasts.  At  the  end  of  every  hunt  they  regaled  themselves 
with  merry  feasts,  singing  songs  and  making  love  to  the  girls 
who  were  flame-bright  in  their  loveliness  in  that  land. 

"Once,  in  the  midst  of  their  banquet,  an  eagle  swooped 
down  from  the  sky  and  carried  off  one  of  their  maidens.  Dark 
was  her  hair  and  her  body  was  tender  and  fragrant  as  the  night. 
The  arrows  which  the  men  shot  after  the  eagle  fell  back  to  earth. 
They  looked  for  the  maiden  everywhere,  but  they  could  not  find 
her.  And  in  time  she  was  forgotten,  just  as  everything  else 
is  forgotten." 

The  old  gipsy  sighed  and  then  became  silent.    Her  creaking 


MAXIM   GORKI  53 

voice  sounded  like  the  jarring  of  the  forgotten  centuries  stirred 
into  life  again  and  awaking  within  her  breast  the  shadow  of  a 
memory.  And  the  sea  accompanied  harmoniously  the  beginning 
of  this  old,  old  legend,  one  of  the  many  that  had  their  birth  in 
the  gray  dawn  of  the  world  where  the  wind  of  the  land  and  the 
waves  of  the  ocean  whispered  together. 

"Twenty  years  later  the  maiden  returned,  shattered  and 
weary,  and  with  her  came  a  youth,  strong  and  handsome  as  she 
herself  had  once  been.  And  when  they  asked  her  where  she  had 
lived  all  this  time  she  told  them  how  the  eagle  had  carried  her 
off  to  his  nest  among  the  mountains  where  she  dwelt  as  his  wife. 
The  youth  was  his  son,  but  the  father  was  no  longer  alive;  for 
that  mighty  eagle,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  growing  feeble  and 
old  and  that  his  end  was  approaching,  raised  himself  with  a  final 
effort  on  high  toward  the  sun,  folded  his  wings  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  jagged  rocks  below. 

"Everybody  looked  in  amazement  at  the  eagle's  son  and 
they  noticed  that  he  was  in  no  way  different  from  them  except 
that  his  eye  was  proud  and  cold  and  invincible  as  the  eye  of  the 
monarch  of  the  air.  When  they  spoke  to  him,  he  replied  or  kept 
silent,  just  as  he  pleased ;  and  when  the  elders  addressed  liim,  he 
answered  them  as  though  he  were  their  equal.  This  disj)lease(l 
them,  and  they  called  him  un  inifiiiished  arrow  whose  barb  had 
been  left  uiisharpcncd,  and  they  exj)laiiied  that  many  thousands 
of  people  like  himself  and  even  much  older  than  himself  honored 
and  obeyed  them.  But  he  looked  at  them  with  his  eold  haughty 
eyes,  remarking  that  there  was  not  another  man  in  tiie  world 
like  himself.  If  others  honored  and  obeyed  llic  elders,  it  w^as 
their  affair;  but  as  for  him,  it  was  his  intention  not  to  abide  by 
the  elders'  wishes. 

"lI(!reupon  they  became  enraged  and  cried  out  that  there 
was  no  place  for  him  in  their  midst!  'Let  him  go  wherever  he 
wishes!'  they  said,  lie  laughed  ami  went  wherever  he  wished,  — 
namely,  to  a  beautiful  young  girl  who  had  h(;(;n  looking  at  him 


54  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

long  and  steadily.  He  approached  her  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  This  girl,  however,  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  elders 
who  had  just  rebuked  him.  And  although  he  was  handsome,  she 
spurned  his  embrace,  for  she  feared  the  wrath  of  her  father. 
She  pushed  him  away  from  her  and  was  about  to  leave,  but  he 
followed  her;  and  as  she  fell  down,  he  placed  his  foot  upon  her 
breast.  He  crushed  it  so  fiercely  that  the  blood  began  to  spurt 
out  of  her  mouth  and  her  life  rushed  forth  from  her  writhing 
heart. 

"All  those  who  had  witnessed  this  were  overwhelmed  with 
terror,  for  never  had  they  beheld  a  human  being  slain  in  such  a 
manner.  And  for  a  long  time  they  were  silent,  gazing  at  the 
dead  maiden  as  she  lay  there  with  her  terrified,  distended  eyes 
and  bleeding  mouth  that  even  in  death  seemed  dumbly  crying 
for  revenge.  And  they  gazed  at  him  as  he  stood  there  alone, 
cold  and  defiant,  with  his  head  raised  high,  inviting  the  punish- 
ment that  he  knew  would  fall  upon  his  head.  Finally,  recover- 
ing their  senses,  they  seized  and  bound  him,  and  then  left  him 
there ;  for  they  thought  it  too  merciful  a  punishment  to  put  him 
to  death  at  once  for  such  a  horrible  and  unheard-of  crime  as  he 
had  committed." 

The  darkness  of  the  night  was  spreading,  its  meshes  inter- 
woven with  the  soft  threads  of  melody  still  heard  in  the  distance, 
its  tints  becoming  more  and  more  fantastic.  The  crickets  chir- 
rupped  among  the  trembling  vine  leaves,  the  winds  sighed  and 
whispered  to  one  another,  and  the  full  moon,  blood-red  hitherto, 
gradually  grew  more  silvery,  scattering  its  shimmer  lavishly 
over  the  wide  steppe. 

"And  they  gathered  together  to  determine  upon  the  pen- 
alty that  might  be  worthy  of  his  crime.  One  of  them  proposed 
to  have  him  torn  asunder  by  two  horses  pulling  in  opposite  di- 
rections. This,  however,  did  not  satisfy  them.  Another  one  sug- 
gested that  they  should  all  shoot  their  arrows  at  him.  But  this, 
too,  did  not  seem  punishment  enough.    Some  recommended  that 


MAXIM   GORKI  55 

they  should  burn  him  at  the  stake;  but  in  that  case  the  smoke 
would  hide  his  suffering  from  their  eyes.  They  discussed  this 
thing  and  that  thing,  but  they  found  no  torture  that  satisfied 
them  all.  And  his  mother  knelt  before  the  elders,  but  found 
neither  words  nor  tears  to  soften  their  hearts  with  pity  toward 
her  son.  For  a  long  time  they  deliberated,  until  finally  a  wise 
man  said :    'Let  us  ask  him  why  he  did  it !' 

"They  asked  him  and  he  replied:  'First  remove  my  chains. 
Unless  I  am  freed  I  refuse  to  talk  to  you ! ' 

"And  when  they  had  removed  his  chains  he  said:  'What 
do  you  want  ? '  And  he  asked  this  in  the  tone  of  a  master  speak- 
ing to  his  slaves. 

"  'You  have  already  heard  what  we  want,'  replied  the 
wise  man. 

"  'Why  should  I  explain  my  actions  to  you?' 

"  'In  order  that  we  may  understand  you,  0  terrible  eagle! 
Now  listen  to  us.  Your  life  is  forfeited  anyhow,  so  that  you  had 
better  tell  us  why  you  have  killed  her.  We  are  going  to  live  on 
and  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  learn  more  than  we  already 
know.'  n  B|,  •.|--^^'3<i 

"  'Very  well,  I  will  tell  you,  although  I  myself  do  not  know 
just  what  has  happened.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  killed  her  be- 
cause she  spurned  me  when  I  desired  to  embrace  her.' 

"  'But  she  was  not  yours!' 

"  'Do  you  use  only  that  which  is  yours?  I  think  that  each 
man  brings  with  him  nothing  but  his  speech,  his  hands  and  his 
feet.  Tlicsc  alone  are  his  by  right  of  birth.  And  yet  do  not  all 
of  you  possess  wives,  boasts  of  burden,  tracts  of  land  and  many 
other  things  besides?' 

"To  this  they  replied  that  whatever  people  possess  they 
have  purchased  at  the  cost  of  their  strength,  their  soul,  their 
freedom,  their  very  life  But  he  insisted  that  he  wanted  to  pos- 
sess whatever  seemed  to  liini  beautiful  and  desirable,  and  to  keep 
all  this  as  his  very  own  without  sharing  it  with  others. 


56  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

"For  a  long  time  they  argued  with  him  and  then  realized 
from  his  words  that  in  his  own  eyes  he  appeared  to  be  the  first 
and  only  creature  on  God's  earth,  neither  recognizing  nor  in- 
deed being  able  to  recognize  any  rights  outside  of  himself.  They 
shuddered  when  they  saw  how  he  was  deliberately  condemning 
himself  to  everlasting  loneliness  among  men.  He  knew  neither 
race,  nor  mother,  no  heroic  deeds,  and  no  peaceful  occupation. 
He  had  neither  herd  nor  home,  nor  mate,  and  he  did  not  even 
feel  the  want  thereof ! ' ' 

In  the  distance,  on  the  seashore,  arose  the  merry  ripple  of 
a  girl's  laughter  intermingled  with  the  melting  tenor  of  a  gipsy 
song.  The  others  regularly  filled  the  rests  in  his  rhythmical 
singing.  The  tender  sheaves  of  melody  rose  and  fell  in  the  air, 
disappearing  suddenly,  as  though  someone  had  caught  them  in 
their  flight  and  carried  off  this  aerial  booty  to  distant  lands. 

"When  the  elders  saw  that  they  could  do  nothing  else  with 
him,  they  deliberated  again  to  determine  the  proper  punishment. 
But  this  time  their  deliberation  did  not  last  so  long,  for  that 
same  wise  elder  who  up  to  this  time  had  said  nothing  about  the 
penalty,  now  spoke  up :  *  Wait !  The  punishment  already  exists. 
And  a  most  fearful  punishment  it  is,  the  like  of  which  has  not 
been  seen  for  many  thousands  of  years.  His  punishment  is 
within  himself,  inexorable  and  unescapable.  Let  him  go  free 
that  he  may  live  on  —  this  is  his  punishment!'  ^ 

"And  thereupon  a  miracle  took  place.  Out  of  a  clear  and 
cloudless  sky  there  suddenly  crashed  a  peal  of  thunder.  The 
heavenly  powers  had  confirmed  the  wise  elder's  judgment.  The 
bystanders  bowed  their  heads  and  each  went  to  his  home.  But 
he,  the  eagle's  son,  whose  name  was  henceforth  Larra  (which 
means  abandoned,  exiled),  laughed  loudly  and  boisterously  at 
his  judges  and  went  forth  a  free  man.  —  Lonely  and  free  was 
he,  just  as  his  father  had  been.  Yet  his  father  was  not  a  human 
being!  And  Larra  began  to  live  his  wondrous  life  —  free  as 
an  eagle.     Often  he  appeared  in  the  settlement  of  the  race  of 


MAXIM    GORKI  57 

giants,  robbing  them  of  their  cattle  and  beautiful  maidens;  — 
whatever  he  desired  for  his  pleasure  was  his  pitiful  victim. 
People  shot  their  arrows  at  him,  yet  his  body  could  not  be  pierced, 
for  it  was  shielded  against  death  by  an  invisible  armor  of  retri- 
bution. He  was  quick,  rapacious,  strong  and  terrible.  Rarely 
did  anybody  come  face  to  face  with  him.  He  was  seen  for  the 
most  part  from  a  distance.  And  whoever  caught  sight  of  him 
shot  as  many  arrows  as  he  possessed  or  was  able  to  spare.  And  for 
many  long  years  he  roamed  alone  and  companionless  through  the 
haunts  of  men.  .  .  .  Yet  we  mortals  cannot  endure  unending  joy ; 
we  cannot  be  happy  in  constant  and  unalloyed  pleasure,  for  such 
pleasure  loses  all  its  value  in  the  end,  and  then  we  begin  to  long 
for  pain.  .  .  .  And  so  it  once  happened  that  he  came  close  to  the 
people,  and  when  they  were  about  to  attack  him  he  remained 
motionless,  making  no  effort  whatsoever  to  defend  himself. 
Thereupon  one  of  the  people  realized  what  he  desired  and  he 
cried,  'Do  not  touch  him!     He  wants  to  die!' 

"And  they  all  restrained  themselves,  for  there  was  not  one 
among  them  who  wished  to  set  him  free  from  his  evil  lot  of 
eternal  life.  They  refrained  from  hiying  hands  on  him,  but 
stood  around  and  mocked  him.  Larra,  however,  trembled  at 
their  laughter  and  fumbled  for  something  that  was  hidden  in 
his  bosom.  Grasping  it  convulsively  he  rushed  upon  the  men  — 
with  a  stone  in  his  uplifted  hand.  They  avoided  his  attack  but 
refu.sod  to  strike  back,  Thereujjon  he  fell  upon  the  ground, 
weeping  and  weary,  and  they  stood  about  gn/.ing  at  his  prostrate 
form.  .Seeing  this  he  snatched  a  knife  that  liiid  \':\]\v\\  upon  the 
ground  from  one  of  the  ni'-n  during  the  struggle,  and  plung(>d 
It  into  his  breast.  But  the  knife  sruipi)ed  at  the  hilt  as  though 
it  had  .struck  against  a  stone;  and  once  more  he  fell  upon  the 
earth,  and  in  desf)air  beat  his  head  violently  against  it.  The  earth 
merely  yielded,  leaving  a  hollf)W  where  his  liciid  had  struck 
ngaijist  it. 

"  'lie  cannot  die!'  joyfully  cried  those  who  had  witnessed 


58  STORIES    OF    THE    STEPPE 

all  this.  And  they  went  away  leaving  him  all  alone.  He  lay 
upon  his  back  and  this  is  what  he  saw :  High  against  the  heavens 
like  two  black  dots  flew  two  mighty  eagles.  And  he,  a  human 
being,  lay  there  helpless  upon  the  ground;  and  in  his  human 
eyes  there  was  such  deep  longing,  such  endless,  overwhelming 
sorrow  that  they  could  drown  out  the  happiness  of  the  entire 
race  of  mortals.  And  from  that  time  on  unto  this  very  day  he 
has  been  seeking  for  death  —  always  alone,  always  in  vain.  And 
everywhere  you  can  see  him,  seeking  everywhere.  .  .  .  You  saw 
him  but  a  little  while  ago.  ...  He  is  nothing  but  a  shadow  now, 
and  a  shadow  he  will  remain  forever.  Now  he  understands 
neither  the  speech  nor  the  actions  of  men.  ...  He  no  longer 
knows  what  it  is  to  live  and  the  secret  of  death  will  forever  re- 
main locked  against  him.  He  merely  wanders  and  seeks,  seeks 
and  wanders.  His  life  is  no  life  and  the  hope  of  death  no  longer 
smiles  upon  him,  and  no  rest  nor  welcome  can  he  find  among 
men.     Thus  has  God  punished  man's  overweening  pride!" 

Old  Isergil  sighed  and  then  became  silent,  while  her  head 
sank  down  on  her  breast. 

I  looked  at  her.  Sleep  was  overpowering  the  old  gipsy, 
and  I  pitied  her.  The  latter  part  of  her  story  had  burst  forth  in 
loud,  almost  threatening  tones,  and  yet  her  words  rang  with  a 
timid  and  slavishly  humble  undertone. 

A  song  arose  in  the  darkness  on  the  seashore.  A  most  won- 
derful song  it  was !  First  an  alto  rang  through  the  night,  —  a 
young  girl's  voice,  singing  the  first  measures  of  the  melody. 
Then  a  second  voice  took  up  the  same  song  from  the  very  start 
while  the  first  voice  continued  the  melody,  a  few  measures  in 
advance  of  the  second  singer.  Then  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  a 
fifth  voice  took  up  the  same  song,  and  each  new  voice  began  like 
the  second,  a  few  measures  after  the  one  previous  to  it,  and 
continued  the  song  through  to  the  end.  And  suddenly  a  chorus 
of  men 's  voices  rang  out,  singing  the  self-same  melody  from  the 
beginning,  harmonizing  and  supporting  the  other  singers,  yet  not 


MAXIM    GORKI  59 

in  the  least  drowning  out  their  voices,  A  fugue  in  the  steppe !  — 
Born  among  the  common  folk  and  sung  by  the  common  folk ! 

The  melody  was  wonderful.  Each  female  voice  rang  sweetly 
and  distinctly  out  of  the  interweaving  strands  of  music.  It  was 
as  if  many-colored  rills  were  chasing  and  tumbling  out  of  the 
air  over  a  steep  precipice  and  then  swinging  and  melting  together 
into  a  stream  of  exquisite  melody.  The  voices  rushed  into  this 
stream,  submerging  themselves  within  its  depths  and  then  with 
a  ripple  of  laughter  bubbling  up  on  the  surface  again.  One 
after  another  they  tumbled  pure  and  bright  as  crystal,  and  then 
rose  once  more  into  the  heights.  And  the  harmony,  too,  was 
wonderful.  The  male  voices  sang  in  a  different  and  mpre  sim- 
ple rhythm,  without  any  ornament  or  vibration,  —  somewhat 
heavy  and  melancholy,  as  though  they  were  telling  a  tale  of 
sorrow,  —  while  the  female  voices,  overtaking  each  other  con- 
tinually, seemed  to  be  forevermore  hastening  to  tell  the  same 
tale  to  their  companions,  —  yet  a  tale  that  was  no  longer  sor- 
rowful but  filled  with  the  merry  ringing  of  silvery  fairy  bells. 

And  this  melody  rose  higher  and  higher  until  it  over- 
\rhelmed  the  moaning  of  the  sea. 


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